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FREDRI0K H. DePEU^S 



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PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 



EAST GILEAD, BRANCH CO., MICH. 



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U. S. A. 




Coldwater, Mich. 

Conover Eng-Ptg Co., 

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year iSSg, by 

Fredrick H. DePeu, 
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



PREFACE. 



I was born in the state of Ohio, in Marion county, in 
1832. My mother was a German of well educated parents, 
connected with one of the colleges of Germany, the name 
my mother did not remember as her parents left Germany 
on account of the great rebellion there and came to Amer- 
ica and settled in Virginia, where my mother was born. 
She was a woman of deep religious feeling, a quiet and 
retiring disposition. My father's parents were Hollanders, 
of a nervous and excitable disposition, but good moral, 
upright citizens. In 1835 ^^Y parents moved to Michigan 
and settled in Branch county. It was then wild indeed, it 
was then a territory, and had not yet become a state and 
a vast howling wilderness filled with wild roving Indians, 
but on comparative friendly terms with the settlers. I 
can well recollect of romping through the forest with the 
Indian boy and little brown maid, and over them I could 



4 PREFACE. 

not boast of garb. Father and mother treated them kind- 
ly and I often thought those rude sons of the forest knew 
how to appreciate friendship far above their more civilized 
brethren. How often I rowed my Indian canoe over those 
deep blue lakes and riding the snow capped waves. 

I see all things in nature good and beautiful and it is 
the greatest enjoyment to me to sit on some hillock for 
hours and hear the little birds sing their merry songs. It 
is the sweetest music to me. I see God in all nature; 
the hoarse croak of the crow, or the little warbler among 
the bushes; the little rippling brook, or the roaring wave 
surging against the rock bound shore. I there receive 
more soul inspiring principle in these solitude meditation, 
than aught could give in costly decorated temples. The 
song of some lonely bird would awake my soul to higher 
themes than the warmest eloquence of mortal man. There 
is just as much beauty in the pale little tiower hidden way- 
down in the fern, as the rose that blushes at the rising sun. 
The lowest reptile that crawls on the sand or the most 
beautiful bird that chirps its good bye to the setting sun, 
for God is the creator of all. So I ran bare-footed, bare- 
headed over the hills and through the vales and helped my 
father clear up the wild farm. I was always fond of read- 
ind such books as I could obtain, and was very fond of 
history. So I ran and grew until I was twenty-five, when 
I married a beautiful girl and settled on a farm where I 
had two daughters born to me, Alice Jane, are Valirea 



PREFACE. 5 

Gabrilia. When the great rebellion of 1861 burst with 
all its fury upon the nation, I enlisted in the 44th. reg- 
iment 111., Co. B., and went into the field with General 
Siegel and Fremont, and passed through many trying 
scenes incident to a soldiers life. I stayed my three years 
enlistment. At the fall of Atlanta, my term having expired 
I was discharged, and returned to my home in Michigan. 
But I found the war had its ravages in the north as well as 
in the south, so I sold the farm and went to work at the 
carpenter trade. 

My first publication was in 1868, a tirade on a worth- 
less law suit, which drew on me the anathema of the 
participants of the suit. When I saw my piece took so 
well, I was induced to write more, but was not quite so 
lavish in explanation. In the last few years I have had 
no home. I write not to please any one party or clique, 
only to free my mind; they are my thoughts not yours, so 
ye critic hold your peace, for if they are good you cannot 
destroy them. If the)' are poor it will not show good 
reasoning to try to destroy them, for the good will assert 
itself, the poor will fall of its own weight, so you critics 
sleep in peace aud let the wind blow its own course. 

I wrote Kinderhook while passing the winter in Mari- 
on, Ohio, with a cold, distant people, who looked on all 
without money as mere ciphers, and there was no utility 
in things that did not turn to gold. Many were the lines 
I wrote in a cheerless room in the dead of winter, without 



6 PREFACE. 

any fire, yet I was surrounded by near relatives with an 
abundant harvest. They thought me spending my time 
was folly, worse than folly. I had one friend on whom 
I could rely; S. Underwood, a merchant who always wel- 
comed me to his store and gave me the free use of of his 
desk, so I have wrote on, knowing the world is fair in its 
dealing, and there is nothing to lose but everything to 
gain, asking nothing and expecting little. 

For near sixty long years now have I been clinging to 
this little ball of dirt that goes whirling through the im- 
mensity of space, and yet through all these flitting years, I 
have not been free from some bodily ailment. With no 
physical force, but a mental ever waking, ever dreaming. 
At the lone midnight hours when all nature seemed lulled 
in sound repose, then in dreams sweeter than all earth 
can give, heavens zephyrs come laden with songs of 
the far beyond, and away down the walk of heaven, trail- 
ing vines, climbing vines, sparkling with heavens diamond 
dew, flowers painted with all the colors of the rainbow, 
blushing as though unseen, sweetest flower, trees of life, 
ever blooming, fluttering, fanned by the breath of heaven, 
murmuring rivulets, sparkling in the light of God, songs. 
heavenly songs, sweetest melody, that would thrill my 
soul with joy sweeter than all earth could give, sang by 
choirs of angels loitering around the fountain of life. My 
soul would go out and blend with the singers. I would 
linger around these fond scenes until a silvery voice would 



PREFACE. 7 

whisper "not yet." I would awake and find I was yet on 
earth, and surrounded by all the sorrows of this world, 
more stricken by dreams, beautiful dreams, though delu- 
sive. Changing, shifting scenes, oft' in my midday ram- 
bles, lone in some forest deep and dark. I'd sit under some 
old oak in sadness too deep for utterance, then in thoughts 
too deep for language, go down to the very depth of -woe; 
the earth would grow dark, darker still, howling winds 
would bring to me the cry of some helpless mortal. Away 
over yonder comes the cry of some poor helpless widow, 
broken on the wheel of misfortune, refusing to be comfort- 
ed. On that brown old hill over yonder among the dying 
old oaks, leafless, I hear the bitter sighs, I see a crowd 
bowed down around a new made grave, the gray haired 
father tottering on his staff, the mother trembling, broken, 
too seared with years to weep, for the fountain of her tears 
has gone dry. Then every thing would be so dark and 
dreary, like great clouds hanging low, so thick I could 
hardly burst through. 

My baby life was never free from pain. The first six 
years I was but a weak form of myself, carried around on 
a pillow, with chills and aches racking my tender form. 
My infant tears could not reduce the pain, and upon the 
breast of the best of mothers, I would sleep the broken 
sleep of wails. Many were the silent prayers sent to 
heaven to take her babe and leave the pain. As I grew 
older, one sorrow followed up on the heels of another. 



8 PREFACE. 

It seemed as if I was born under some unlucky star, ever 
dreaming. Around me, there was ever thrown such a wierd 
hallucination, object real, and when to boyhood I had 
grown, in form so light that I could stand very little manu- 
al labor, so I roamed over the hills as wild as the wild 
wind, and through the forest of Kinderhook, as light of 
foot as the fleeting roe. I would row my Indian made 
canoe over the deep blue lakes all hours of the day or 
night, though stormy and dark, when the whole elements 
were raging and rocking to and fro, then my whole soul 
would be awake with delight. 

As I have floated down the stream of time, I have 
neared some beautiful oasis, ever reaching, never grasping, 
always in pursuit of some will-o'the-wisp. Day dreams as 
light as midnight slumbering vision, never sleeping, never 
waking, wandering through the forest deep, at all hours 
of day or night, the sighing winds would awake my soul 
to such tender themes of sadness, though none but a poet 
heart can drink the same drink, so deep of natures boun- 
ties. The most humble forest songster would thrill my 
soul with delight, tenfold more than the finest orchestra 
that ever stood up on the gilded stage. I would sit for 
hours in dreamy silence, and with the sweet cadence blend. 
What is joy to the poet is sorrow to all others; for over 
the frailty of the human race, they will sing their most 
tender themes. I was always considered a pretty good 
sort of a shiftless sort of a fellow. They all seemed to 



PREFACE. 



think I had an inalienable right to the surrounding count- 
ry. I had more ambition to become a good hunter than 
a scholar in mystical book lore. When diagraming out 
Clark's system on the black board, I would hurry through 
with all possible speed and then manage to forget it at the 
earliest possible moment. When the time of school had 
expired, my grammar was enhanced in value by its reference 
notes on the margin of the leaves, showing my keen ap- 
preciation of Clark's system of diagraming. My greatest 
delight was to chase the wild deer through the wild wood 
and many a huge buck, with antlers high, fell bef6re my 
unerring rifle; or wander along the shore of some beauti- 
ful lake, in the light of the full moon, not a ripple or a 
leaf astir; the white breasted loon would give its piteous 
cry as it floated half sleeping. The quick sharp note of 
the whip-poor-will would make the scenes more enchant- 
ing. 

Why is it that these poetical hearts of ours are tuned 

to such sad discord. Only let some weak mortal step 
aside, then Erato will tune her lyre, then sweep the chord 
with an exultant hand. Oh! is it not pleasure, the sorrows 
of others is the sorrow of us all; joy may be the lot of 
some, but sorrow is the lot of us all, for we all stand on 
the ground of common sorrow, we but catch the minor 
melody of some life sorrow, no matter if stranger hands 
touch the keys, our whole soul will blend with the singer. 
We see beauty in all its strength, though oft delusive we 



10 PREFACE. 

eagerly follow, grasp, and then let fall. In moods con- 
templative, all earth will roll back, then our souls are enrap- 
ped with the sweets of the legion. Though transitory, we 
poets live in the two extremes, one day we are caught up 
beyond the stars, then we are lost in the dark recess of 
this dark world. If I was sent to the field to plow and I 
would hear a squirrel barking in the woods, I would hitch 
my team in the shade of some friendly oak and take my 
gun and chase squirrels the rest of the day. 

The Author. 



THE OLD WELL. I I 



THE OLD WELL. 

Fifty years now past and gone, forgotten by all save one 
who pays a pilgrimage tQ it as some sacred shrine, and as 
I dip the cup of water, my hands tremble, my glasses be- 
come misty. No bubbling spring ever welled forth water 
half so sweet as the old well. Gone, all gone. Often I 
try to break away from these scenes and go to some strange 
land, but as often return, like the lost traveler in the for- 
est, to the place from whence he started. 

I love to sit in some friendly nook near the old well; the 
birds sing their songs as of days long ago, but they do not 
sound half as sweet then, as when we would chase them 
through the field in innocent sport. Then, with ruddy 
cheek and rumpled hair, we would gather at the old well, 
then splash the water over our sun burned cheeks, shout 
and romp in childish glee; happy, thrice happy, for pride 
had never yet entered our cabin door. No drink so pure 
ever stood upon the gilded sideboard, as the water from 
the old well, the old gum tree well, moss covered grown. 
I turn and ask of all whom I meet, none knows of the old 
well. 



12 SUBSET ON LAKE LAVINA. 



SUNSET ON LAKE LAVINA. 

Today being cloudy and dull. I took my boat and rowed 
across the lake and landed at the foot of the old bluff, and 
climbed to its utmost top, and while I was looking over the 
scene, my mind was carried back to primitive days, when 
the red man roamed along these shores, a God given right. 
Perhaps where I now stand, the Indian orator once stood 
and discoursed his }'oung braves, and sang the song of 
death. I was so enraptured with its wild scenes that my 
imagination became so vivid, that I could see their light 
canoes gliding here and there o'er the old historic lake, 
and their lodges along the shore. But where are they 
now.' Their graves only tell the stranger. If their strength 
had been equal to their spirit, they still would have roam- 
ed these hills. While I stood wondering and pondering, a 
stiff breeze lifted the cloudy vail and gave me the finest 
sunset that ever yet greeted the eyes of mortal man. It 
was a glorious sunset. The leaves of stunted oak and ma- 
ple, reddened by the frosts of autumn, were painted as no 
artist could imitate. The little log hut away down the 
shore, with its happy children shouting and romping, un- 
conscious of the bright halo around them; clouds, rugged. 



SUNSET ON LAKE LAVINA. 1 3 

lay painted with all the colors of the rainbow, which re- 
flected such a mellow glow over the whole scene, that I 
exclaimed "Will our future home be more beautiful than 
this?" The lake sparkled, the birds chirped their evening 
songs, gladdened in the sunlight, the fowls dressed their 
plumes, the lowing herds felt the inspiration and stood 
contemplatively. All nature seemed lulled in this halo of 
glory. A little brook went gurgling down the rugged bluff 
and it sounded as sweet as the whispering of angels around 
the couch of a dying babe. But night let her curtain fall 
and shut out this beautiful scene, then I rowed back to the 
log cabin among the hills. 



14 KINDERHOOK. 



KINDERHOOK. 

Afar off, once in the western land, 

Where huge oaks and towering pines, Michigan, 
In Kinderhook deep, dark, forest wildwood. 

Sailed my light boat on the deep blue lake, 
And chased the timid hare thorugh bush and brake. 

Through the wild I would sport in boyish glee. 
Chasing the grey squirrel from tree to tree. 
The little birds chirped, I loved them then, 

Adown ofttimes would I sit in the glen. 
As the leaves were budding forth in the spring. 

Lone would I steal away to hear them sing. 
And followed the plow the old brown field o'er, 

That our barns might be filled with the harvest store. 
The old log schoolhouse just over the wood. 

Near the old swamp where the elm tree stood, 
Where to school in the winter we would go. 

Trudging the forest, through the white, frosty snow, 
Our childish hearts were then light and warm, 

We would go shouting, laughing, through the storm. 
The old keen-eyed master that taught the school. 

Who tavght us well of book, but more of rule. 
And on the dunce block many times I've sat, 

And on my head, a great tall paper hat, 



KINDERHOOK. 

With paper stuck on my nose, cheek and chin, 

And all the scholars were made to laugh and grin. 
He could handle the rod or rule, 'tis true, 

As every sly, mischievous urchin knew. 
One morn he stood by his desk, looked profound, 

Surveyed us busy rustics all around, 
With a flushed cheek, for his ferule was gone. 

We all studied hard, for we knew what was done; 
He watched us in anger as down he sat; 

We remember who wore the paper hat. 
We all studied hard to know as much as he. 

For we all aspired teachers to be. 
At times he would arrange us rustics around. 

And then lecture us all on rules profound. 
If little ones came in, chilly and cold, 

Good old master would them in his arms enfold. 
And bring them in and sit them by the fire; 

To do the greatest good was his desire. 
Now that good old master sleeps on the hill; 

Around glide the zephyrs, silent and still. 
At times I've sat by the old master's grave. 

And remembered the good advice he gave. 
As I have passed it by many a day. 

Pointed it to the stranger on the way. 
The old schoolhouse is rotten, gone all, 

The plow has destroyed and covered its wall. 
The teacher and schoolhouse have passed away. 



15 



l6 KINDERHOOK. 

And both now are mouldering back to clay. 
The cot of my father, too, it is gone, 

And where it once stood is now a rich lawn. 
There the young would gather around the hearth. 

Romp in childish glee and laugh in wild mirth. 
Young folks would come from roiind the country o'er. 

Then would dance a jig on the rough board floor. 
We would dance hours away without a tune. 

For to us then, music it was unknown. 
We would crack the brown nuts before the fire. 

To do each other good, was our desire. 
My mother's fried cakes, so nice and brown. 

In great wooden bowls we'd pass them around. 
My father then would brighten up the fire. 

To help each other we would all aspire. 
Oft we would run along the little rill. 

And gather brown nuts from over the hill; 
Gather wild berries from the country o'er. 

Gather them away for our winter store. 
Then our little splint basket we would fill 

With brown hickory nuts, over the hill. - 
How we'd laugh and skip to see them bound. 

As from rough old trees they came rattling down. 
At eve we'd gather around the homestead hearth, 

By the crackling fire, busy wheel and mirth, 
And listen to great tales that hunters tell, 

Who gathered at the. hearth and told them well. 



KINDERHOOK. 17 

How they'd chased the buck through brush and brake, 

Driven by eager hound within the lake. 
Each one to tell his story, would insist 

Always made good shots, never said they missed. 
Then round the table, well spread, though rude, 

We'd gather and partake the humble food; 
With the lone traveler would always share. 

And every one found a welcome there. 
No one ever turned hungry from the door, 

But always freely gave to rich or poor. 
All joined in the day sport, the young, the grown, 

We had but little pride, it was our own. 
The meek, patient cattle that plowed the way, 

Hauled us all to church on the Sabbath day, 
Where the good old parson would tell us all 

The sins of this dark world, and Adam's fall; 
As on the rudq oak bench we sat around. 

With eager delight caught the gospel sound. 
He would give us sermons and give them long. 

Up from exultant souls the joyful song; 
With a choir, or music, we were not blest, 

And every one sang as he thought best. 
He would then bring up our sins fair to view. 

We thought it rather harsh, but it was true. 
At times he would lift up his hands and weep 

For all those in sin he would claim asleep; 
To us all, the gospel he would declare; 



5 KINDERHOOK. 

The good old parson was welcome anywhere. 
But now he sleeps in yonder valley low, 

In the valley where the wild lilies grow; 
He now sleeps beneath the wild forest tree; 

Sure no better man ever was than he. 
Many times to his grave we would draw near 

And there silently shed remembrance's tear. 
The years fly fast; how quickly they have flown; 

Silently gliding by; to man I have grown; 
Flew on till I have passed the prime of life, 

Feebly battling in this earthly strife. 
At times our hearts are filled with gay relief , 

But too soon they are o'ershadowed with grief. 
Fiction throngs the mart through the busy street, 

Boldly confronts the truth where'er they meet. 
On we move, on, a melancholy band. 

Wandering, pondering, throughout the land; 
At times we're out in mid ocean sailing, 

Then stranded on rocky reefs, bewailing. 
Fiction is bartered for gold, all a name; 

Poets scarce dare to try for honest fame. 
At times I stand and view the country o'er. 

Where once it teemed in peace with joyful store; 
Where bright, rosy cheeked maidens danced in joy. 

No better tune than a whistling farmer boy. 
No costly dress borrowed beauty supply, 

But move and act to please her lover's eye. 



KINDERHOOK. 1 9 

Dusty plow boys come whistling home their tune, 

With worn and fretted team, to rest at noon. 
Once, these fond scenes were cheering to my heart, 

More than all the wealth of gold can impart. 
As I wander o'er the world, tempest tossed, 

Whate'er the rich man gained, the poor man lost. 
Yes, vain visions may greet the poor man's eyes. 

Eagerly hope and grasp, but still it flies. 
All you who from bounteous nature draws, 

And all you who control and make our laws, 
Where luxury reigns and poverty not. 

By greater deeds, better the poor man's lot. 
The forest green, the dark and matted cope, 

Rolling field, valleys green and rocky slope. 
O'er hills and valleys, woodman's home around. 

Winding, grass-edge path to their cottage brown; 
Broad, blue streams, winding through the valley goes. 

Zephyrs glide o'er the wood, fanning the rose. 
Kinderhook, I love thee, yes, love thee well. 

Fond memory from my heart can't repel; 
Oft have I been woke at early morn. 

By the long, shrill blast of the huntsman's horn. 
Chasing affrighted deer from brush around; 

Fleeing o'er hills, pursued by yelping hound. 
Heated breath, trembling limb, through the brake, 

Weak from bleeding wounds, plunge within the lake. 
Oh! back, back, days, to pleasures unalloyed; 



20 KINDERHOOK. 

Woodman's ax and plow these pleasures destroyed. 
We are as travelers on the dusty road, 

Wandering- along, weary with our load. 
Under some friendly oak oft fall asleep, 

Weary and worn, too deep in grief to weep. 
On Lake Lavina, clear and deep, dark blue, 

O'er its snow-capped waves I've rowed my canoe. 
And at times amid the tempest's roar, 

I'd shout in boyish glee, from shore to shore. 
In mid-summer, my weary limbs I'd lave, 

And sport with the roaring, snow-capped waves. 
Large, towering oaks, along the banks arose. 

And bathed in the water their swaying boughs. 
Among the branches, the chirping red-breast, 
Hidded by the green foliage, built her nest. 
The timid fawn, bounding along the shore. 

Sporting in the sunlight given lore; 
Along the shore, flowers rich and rare, 

Sweetly perfuming the evening air; 
Grapes trailing vines climbing up the trees run, 

Clustered with purple grapes, sparkle in the sun. 
At night, along the shore, the fire-fly 

Flitted and sparkled against the dark sky. 
Sweet cadence of the night, bird of the hill. 

And the short, sharp notes of the whip-o-will. 
White breasted loons over the waters fly, 

Flap their broad wings and give their midnight cry, 



KINDERHOOK. 21 

Long and loud, with a doleful, piercing sound, 

Awaking the deep, dark forest around. 
Large flocks of turkeys along the shore run, 

Their black plumes glittering in the sun. 
At times, over its smooth face I would float, 

Among the lilies I would row my boat. 
Chase the wary pickerel through the tide, 

With my barbs, a dart pierce their scaly side. 
Then in some quiet little bay, or nook, 

I would anchor my boat; with line and hook 
I'd decoy the finny tribe of the deep; 

Bring the striped bass struggling to my feet. 
When I was but a wild, a romping youth, 

Diana trimmed her bow and led me forth. 
Through woods with drooping boughs, wet with dew. 

With yelping hound, the fleeing buck pursue 
O'er the hills, with foaming mouth, open wide; 

I'd send the ball whizzing through his hot side. 
Fleeing wildly, stung by the cruel wound. 

Quick springs in hot pursuit, my yelping hound. 
I'd follow the wild chase o'er hill and vale, 

Through bog and swamp, thick brake and woody dale. 
The wounded buck, weak from the loss of blood, 

Staggering blindly through the wild wood. 
The eager hound, leaping in the wild chase. 

Faint springs the panting buck in the last race; 
With a spring the dog would drag the buck down, 



22 KINDERHOOK. 

Struggling and scattering his life blood around; 
Then I'd blow the huntsman's horn, long and shrill, 

Awaking the wild echoes of the hill. 
Cruel fate; sad was the day that taught desire, 

To sing songs and tune the poet's lyre, 
And drink deep of heaven's inspiration. 

And sing to the world, sad lamentation. 
Often our beating hearts with joy will thrill, 

At times, sing our songs with a joyful will. 
But let the birds sing their songs joyful clear,' 

Sure, deep, dark clouds will be a lurking near. 
The poet's breast may with sweetest love burn, 

The heart may throb in vain for its return; 
But heaven bestows her gifts of nature. 

With care unceasing on every feature. 
When mother earth becomes all parched and dry, 

From bounteous heaven will draw supply. 
On Iowa's plains I've chased the wild deer, 

With horse and eager hound with a wild cheer. 
Horse, rider and hounds vieing in the race, 
Clanking hoof, belter skelter, in the chase. 

With a shout, clatter and clash, whip and spur. 
Swift gray and deep voiced hound and yelping cur, 

Cross the plain from hills to vale, vale to hills. 
In hot pursuit, through ravines, across the rills. 

Wandering in strange lands remote, alone. 
Wandering until melancholy grown. 



KINDERHOOK, 

Whether in Michigan cold forest land, 
And wandering on the banks of broad Grand, 

I think of those who blest with happy lot, 
Blest with a cheerful home, but I have not. 

Blest are they who can lay the weary head. 
With a thankful heart on the white bed; 

Blest is he who has the heart to share, 
And every stranger finds a welcome there. 

As I have wandered oft-times sick and sore. 
And the rich against me have shut the door, 

Then weary and worn I would find a bed, 
Among those more friendly, in a humble shed. 

At times away in some lonely hut rude. 
In welcome I have shared their humble food. 

At times we meet friends that we hold most dear. 
Meet them heart to heart with a welcome cheer, 

Scarcely extend the hand, our story tell. 
Soon will come the farewell, yes fare you well. 

At times we are joyed by loves bright token. 
But ere we anchor hope, it is broken. 

At times we kneel at hope's deceptive shrine, 
And follow on through the world's giddy wind. 

So on, on through this world we wildly run. 
At last only find our life has begun. 

At spring's early morn, with my gun and dog. 
When the wild partridge thunders on the log. 

With its far seeming and dead rumbling sound, 



23 



24 KINDERHOOK. 

Awaken the welkin o'er hills around. 
My keen, faithful pointer leads, I follow. 

Over hills, through woods, through bush and hollow 
The bird would spring with a wild whirring sound, 

I'd spring the lock, bring it whirling to ground; 
Then my ever ready dog, swift and fleet, 

Would bring it struggling to my feet. 
Kinderhook hills, where I once loved to rove, 

In the cool summer eve, the lovely grove. 
Wander under the old oaks, rough and sere. 

My thought flies back to those scenes so dear; 
But through this cold world I must plod along. 

For it is left for me to write your songs. 
When all is still, lone midnight's hour, 'tis then, 

Sweet inspiration guides my lonely pen. 
Great is the man, who that I can ever find. 

Whose generous heart warms for all mankind; 
In eastern fields, or on the western plain. 

Or he who toils the day for golden gain. . 

On Nebraska's low, rolling, desert sand. 

Rolls the low broad Platte, majestic and grand, 
Winding its way slow like a sluggard on, 

And slake the thirst of buffalo and fawn; 
And from its low banks I have took my draught, 
And watched its winding, in deepest thought. 
Here, too, the red man made his lonely bed. 
Worn from the chase of the day, laid his head, 



KINDERHOOK. 2$ 

And dreamed of wild sport of the coming day, 

Dreamed of battle wild, chasing the way. 
The rude tents would dot the plains here and there, 

Then dance the wild dance in the noonday glare. 
And spring the rude bow and drive the shaft. 

Swiftly and surely in some wild bird's breast. 
Let warriors battle, poets write for fame. 

The red man's happy lot, it's all a name. 
I have sat and listened to the rude song. 

Their wants are few nor want that little long. 
Often my heart is cheered by love's bright dream. 

Though oft delusive and not what they seem. 
Our soul will at times visit yon bright shore 

And leave far behind earth's wild tempest roar. 
All earth rolls back behind the clouds of night. 

And all nature's crude form is lost to sight. ^ 

If my lot is rough, why should I repine.-* 

If there is no place that I can call mine; 
Rolls in the lap of luxury, the great, 

The kings and queens and lords of grand estate. 
Do not understand that any fault I find. 

For when I leave this earth leave all behind. 
The untutored savage seeks not for gain, 

But seeks his humble food from off the plain. 
Then lonely and weary I've trod my way, 

Rifle in hand, many a weary day; 
At last lain down on mounts rocky and steep. 



I 
26 KINDERHOOK, 

And at midnight, worn, I have fell asleep. 
Slept sweetly and sound in the lone, wild gloom. 

As if far away in some lordly room; 
And drank water that welled beneath the tree. 

That freely bubbled forth, and I was free. 
Let the cold miser dig and delve for gold, 

Happy is the shepherd that guards his fold; 
With a buoyant heart he tunes his lyre. 

And sings his songs and sends them up higher. 
Yon towering, steep old mount, that points the sky. 

In varying green beyond, broad, low plains lie. 
Wondering, I sit on the mossy seat, 

Roaring cataracts plunge beneath my feet; 
Thundering, surging with a rushing flow, 

On headlong, till lost in white mist below. 
As I am wandering in wildwood land, 

I can commune with nature as I stand; 
You lordlings who are bound in dusty room, 

Plodding your dreary life to the tomb; 
Among the old mountains alone I stand 

In liberty, I feel myself a man; 
O'er my head waves the dark, rich' foliage green; 

None, as the poet's heart, can drink the scene. 
So the muse guides the wandering poet's hand. 

To write it. to tell it in other lands. 
A dreary, barren waste before me lies. 

In which a phantom sometimes does arise. 



KINDERHOOK. 2/ 

And my heart in joy as I pass along, 

And I'll join and go with the laughing throng. 
Then again on Georgia's high mount I stand, 
* And view the sunny field of southern land, 
And see the towering steeple on the plain. 

And behold waving fields of golden grain; 
See little streams through them all winding lay, 

Meandering, reminds me of my way. 
As o'er the rough hills and broad plains I wind, 

Oft times in room the giddy dance I'll join, 
And in gaiety they would dance the floor, 

I would give them mellow strains o'er and o'er; 
My violin atune, they'd dance away, 

Happy and buoyant, till the break of day. 
Then to pursue some phantom, I'd arise. 

But alas, on near approach, still it flies; 
White haired, eager, trembling walk, bent with years. 
Eyes dim, careworn cheeks, all bedewed with tears, 
The gay and buoyant youth that's on the road. 

So all and each of us must bear our load. 
Every nation thinks its own country best, 

'Tis wherein all the peace and pleasure rest; 
Whether in Araby's hot, desert land. 
Or in the cold forests of Michigan; 
Or on the wild Brazilian broad steppes low, 

Or on the arid plains of Mexico; 
The poor Esquimaux of the frigid zone, 



28 KINDERHOOK. 

Happy in their humble lot, 'tis their own. 
Happy is the wild Bedouin as he roams, 

Buoyant in life, enjoying his torrid home; 
The Patagonian in his icy clime. 

Or those of Italy's sunny fields sublime; 
Or the rocky, cold Alpine's rugged steep, 

Or on the desert plains where monsoons sweep; 
The sunny isle remote, of southern seas. 

Or the cold St. Bernard of wintry breeze; 
Each and all have their kindred nation's jo}-, 

But sure they have it not without alloy. 
Never mind the clouds that float in the sky, 

Live content, therein all pleasures lie. 
The great steamship that plows the ocean wave, 

It, too, like all the rest, must find a grave. 
The surging, blue deep, ma}' in anger roll. 

Yet mankind has enslaved mankind for gold. 
Great battles have bloodied many a field. 

And breast bared to breast the glittering steel, 
When those ills I see, I have no desire 

To envy the lordl}', the great aspire. 
On Lookout's rocky mount, in misty shrouds, 

I've stood where Hooker stood, above the clouds, 
'Where its steep, rocky sides were all ajar. 

Quaking with the thundering crash of war. 
Then in deep solitude, I've sought repose. 

Away in dark forest where tall pine grows; 



KINDERHOOK. 29 

And hunted the wild wood beast by track, 

Start them from their lair by the rifle crack. 
Alone in the wild-wood I'd sit at night, 

Pen my lines by the pine knot's flickering light. 
At the lone midnight hour storms would arise. 

And thunderbolts would dart the gloomy skies; 
Then down in great torrents the rain would pour, 

And among huge old trees, the tempest roar; 
Old stout pines would bend, twigs would fill the air. 

The sky lit up with lightning's vivid glare. 
To seek for fame, no, I do not desire. 

Only to tell my story, I aspire. 
Then why should I write? why should I try for fame.? 

Tis but an empty bauble, alas, a name. 
I do not want the lord's estate, the throne. 

For poets and kings and queens die unknown. 
'Tis better to wander mid scenes wild charms. 

Than to live the life of great kings' alarms. 
The highest aspiration we can reach, 

At last equally it is laid on each. 
Lake Dragon, crooked deep and gloomy flood, 

Low down in the deep dark tangled wildwood; 
The white crested wave sends its foam on high, 

The wild loons send forth their piteous cry, 
Like the last cry of some helpless mortal, 

Wearied, through the wave seeks heavens portal. 
On the shore.the wild duck gathers her food, 



30 KINDERHOOK. 

And among the thick rushes rears her brood. 
Amid the tempest roar at dead of night, 

Wild water fowls scream o'er the wave with fright; 
In the autumn eve, at the setting sun. 

With my keen-scented pointer, boat and gun. 
When maples, like maiden's cheeks, redden o'er, 

I'd hunt the duck along the grassy shore. 
The wild, Indian summer, smoky day, 

Clouds of smoke along the horizon lay. 
Smoke-bedimmed sun, reddened, sinking low. 

Casting back its dim light of mellow glow. 
The redden sky dry and husky, heated air. 

The night lit up by the burning woods' glare; 
The moon rises late at eve, large and red. 

Slowly, smoke-bedimmed, from her earthen bed. 
Up from dry grass quick leaps the forked blaze, 

Dimly the stars twinkle through the red haze; 
Through the haze falls scattering drops of rain; 

The cow boy goes sauntering down the lane; 
The ox in the distant meadow lowing; 

Sleepy notes of the distant cock crowing; 
The withered leaves through the forest falling. 

Showing to us earth, and to us calling; 
Falling like great nations, withered, around. 

Great and small, unheeded, to the ground. 
Lake Dragon forest, once the wild beasts' home. 

Where once the timid deer and elk would roam, 



KINDERHOOK. 31 

Along the shore of marsh and wild, dark wood, 

Among the willows gather nature's food; 
Where once the panther screamed the midnight cry, 

The tall tamarac tops pointing high, 
The long, drooping boughs with moss hanging low. 

Tangled, swaying in the wind, to and fro, 
Where the owl in the gloom, hoots at mid-day. 

And the sly fox goes creeping for its prey; 
Here wolves with their lank jaws, tore each other's side 

And lapped their tongues in Dragon's murky tide. 
The heron spreads her wings, flies o'er the lake. 

Startled by some wild cry from the gnarled brake, 
With long extended neck and trailing feet, 

Flies slowly to some low, muddy retreat. 
On the marshy shore, the croak of the frog, 

Their deep, bass notes sounding along the log; 
Snakes drag their slow length in the marshes low; 
From the tree top, the hoarse caw of the crow; 
Howling winds, moaning through the dark recess. 

Like the lover's broken sigh, can't repress; 
And muddy rills, creeping through roots, run; 

Moss-covered boughs, tangled, obscure the sun. 
Once here the black bear made her bed, among 

The uptorn trees, there reared her young; 
Here, too, they loved and fought, each other tore. 

The woods echoed far with their angry roar; 
With hot, foaming mouth and fire lit eyes. 



32 KINDERHOOK. 

Starting the birds from their nests by their cries; 
Eagles on the dry old snags, perched by day, 

With a keen eye watching, eager for prey, 
Swiftly dart, drive their talons in the hare, 

In spite of cries, the flesh from her bones tear. 
Lake Dragon, low, dark, dismal and deep, 

Among the rushes poisonous serpents creep. 
Hiss the hunter as he is passing by. 

As on old logs, in coils, a sunning lie. 
The strange hunter, wandering in the bog; 

Slips to the knee in the treacherous quag; 
Up the huge tamarac, the climbing vine. 

From root to top, the long branches entwine. 
I have wandered in the old swamp, alone. 

Where never yet a ray of sun has shone. 
Lake Dragon, 'twas in years, long, long ago, 

When the sun in the west was hanging low, 
And purple clouds on the horizon lie, 

And the wild fowls slow o'er the waters fly. 
The frost-bitten leaves rattle in the breeze, 

Baring the tops of the brown covered trees. 
Then lightly floats the birchen bark canoe, 

Gliding the tortuous channels through; 
The wild echo sent back from the deep shade. 

The wild laugh of the brown Indian maid. 
Whose heait is pure and free, it knows no guile, 

Free from earthly care, unbound nature's child. 



KINDERHOOK. 33 

Gathering lilies on the water lie, 

Giving glances with her large, dark brown eye; 
The tall tamarac throws its lengthened shade 

O'er the young warrior brave and his brown maid. 
Lightly the bark canoe glides in high glee. 

O'er the dark waters, young and old all free. 
Sporting in the solitary wild, 

Wants supplied; God provided nature's child. 
Light canoes gliding swiftly here and there. 

With hearts as light, free from envy and care; 
Splashing water in each other's face, 

Nature's children, romping in the wild race. 
The red man of the woods had gathered there. 

Wild, playing as free as the evening air; 
Old warriors chanting their songs of war, 

Of their battling, and many a scar; 
Though dismal the swamp, though dark the deep, 

The red man's wild life, his heart with joy leaps. 
When all their hearts with the wild sport was rife. 

The little brown maid, the warrior, the wife, 
A light canoe went swiftly gliding by, 

With laughing maid and lover's sparkling eye; 
When, lo! up from the dark and murky deep, 

A huge monster with extended arms did leap, 
Splashing the murky waters with a roar. 

Till the waves rolled foaming from shore to shore, 
Then within its arms, the dark monster drew 



34 KINDERHOOK. 

The laughing maid, and lover, and canoe, 
With gaping jaws and with a surging leap, 

Splashing foam on high, sank within the deep. 
Naught was heard, but one deep cry of despair 

Went from shore to shore on evening air; 
As if 'twas controlled by the Demon's will, 

The foaming waves rolled back, and all was still. 
Affrighted, every boat rushed to the shore. 

Never again to sail the blue waters o'er. 
Affrighted they ran to the highest hill, 

Trembling looked o'er the lake, but all was still. 
These scenes was in years of long ago. 

Yet no Indian paddled his canoe, 
O'er Lake Dragon's lonely and wild waters; 

No more the songs of wild sons and daughters 
Are heard on the waves or along its shore; 

Nor the war whoop amid the tempest roar. 
Nor with joyous shouts the forest awake. 

For the evil spirit dwells in the lake. 
O'er the gloomy lake when I was a boy, 

I'd row my light canoe with childish joy. 
O'er the canoe's edge I would slyly peep, 

Adown to bottom of the murky deep. 
No boat or Indian form ever found, 

For the great dragon drew them afar down. 
Often I heard this legend when a child, 

A legend of the solitary wild. 



KINDERHOOK. 35 

No Indian would ever venture more, 

Upon the waters or along the shore. 
With weary steps I have wended my way, 

And hunted the wild deer many a day; 
Forest scenes have their solitary charms 

Which is far more to me than wealth alarms. 
In mid winter often when keen winds blow, 

I have hunted through the storm driven snow, 
The falling snow, I scarcely could take aim, 

I've sent the ball whizzing through the game. 
The deer now have all gone, these scenes are past. 

Still the old trees creak in the winter's blast, 
The same as in years of gone by, long ago. 

When I hunted the forest through the snow. 
When I think of these scenes my heart yet warms. 

For I love the old swamp, I love the storms, 
With its few dry hillocks of beach and oak. 

Where once the Indian tire curling smoke. 
From a solitary wigwam, old and worn. 

Where lived an aged couple, sad, alone. 
In a tattered wigwam years long ago. 

In clouds around their home the driven snow. 
When the howling winds go whirling past. 

Shivering they sat in the wintry blast, 
With smoked face they sat and disheveled hair. 

With bov/ed head, and cheek furrowed deep with care. 
Here they lived, here they passed many a year. 



36 KINDERHOOK. 

Far away from their tribe, no wigwam near. 
For once when young the great spirit they grieved. 

Here alone they lived a penitence to give. 
Here the tawny Potawotomie roamed 

Through the wood of Kinderhook, their forest home. 
Among the old brown hills, I've romped away. 

With Indian girl and boy in wild play, 
Bare footed, bare headed, we ran shouting with joy. 

I could not boast of garb, the Indian boy. 
Well do I remember the deadly strife, 

Where a chief was killed by his dusky wife. 
A settler giving rum fired their brain. 

To fill his reeking purse with golden gain. 
Quarreling and yelling, they passed the day. 

Until slumbering drunk on the ground lay. 
Mad with rum, she sprang with a sudden start, 

Yelled, drove the knife deep in her husband's heart. 
Hurling the bloody knife high o'er her head. 

With a wild whoop, like the wild deer she fled. 
On she ran to lake Kopeishkon's wild shore. 

There sat silent amid the tempests roar. 
Death to the murderer who'er they be. 

Is the Potawotomie's stern decree. 
Stern is the law of an Indian tribe. 

No gr'and courts, or judges, or jurors to bribe. 
If by the sharp dagger one lost their life. 

Then the murderer must die by the knife. 



KINDERHOOK. 37 

And the nearest of kin, it's so decreed, 

Must avenge by the knife the bloody deed. 
By lake Kopeishkon she sat silent down, 

With her blanket wrapped o'er her head around. 
Asking the great spirit to give her rest, 

As his brother drives the knife in her breast. 
As he drove the knife, a scream of despair, 

Came o'er the waves on the evening air. 
I remember well when I but a child, 

I've stook by Kopeishkon when all a wild, 
And there I've heard that wild scream of despair, 

From o'er the lake on the evening air. 
In the autumn by date for nine year, 

That self-same scream that filled our hearts with fear. 
Many once gathered at my uncle's door, 

And there we stood waiting on the wild shore. 
For we keep the date and could tell the day. 

But how with fright we all then ran away. 
But long ago, time spread o'er her thick vail. 

Now no pioneer left to tell the tale. 
No mark on the spot where these murdered lie. 

No pioneer to show the passer by. 
But designing men to enrich their purse, 

Will boldly dare the right, defy the worse. 
When I was a child I have took the hand, 

Of Bawbese the great chief, the white man's friend 
Many times to his wigwam I'd repair. 



38 KINDEKHOOK. 

And in welcome I'd eat their humble fare. 
If you treat an Indian as your friend, 

Sure to your back the same will extend. 
If you give to him that to him belongs; 

But i'ts his nature to avenge a wrong. 
A hunter one evening was watching deer, 

When three arrows went whizzing by his ear. 
Among the wild Indian in infancy reared, 

And the wild whoop on the wild winds I've heard. 
I've heard the sharp twang of the hunter's bow, 

And saw the swift arrow lay the game low. 
When I look back through the hazy mist of time. 

These scenes come flitting dimly to my mind. 
Neighbors that then lived miles away, 

With oxen slow, on a cold winter day, 
Would visit neighbors with joyous shouts, 

And they found the latch string always out. 
Then great kettles of corn mush would be made. 

Cups and spoons upon the table laid, 
Milk placed in the center in a large bowl, 

We all partook freely both young and old. 
Then dance and romp the evening away. 

Old and young sang songs, and joined in the play. 
Many a time I have heard neighbors declare. 

That their table would have had scanty fare. 
But for the trusty rifle; I've heard them tell. 

That by its true aim many a buck fell. 



KINDERHOOK. 



39 



Many pioneers hunted, roamed the woods, 

To obtain meat supply, their scanty food. 
Fish we caught in the lakelets a plenty, 

Pickerel in weight from fifteen to twenty, 
And smaller fry made sweet delicious food. 

And often a turkey wild from the wood. 
Every pioneer must show his skill, 

And with a gun some wild game he must kill. 
So one neighbor thought he would try his luck. 

He would take to the pond and kill a duck. 
At level rest took aim, but not so well. 

The ball flew wide of mark, a heifer fell. 
A mill was built that went whirling around. 

Where all kinds of grain was mashed up and ground, 
With a clatter, a clash, away it run, 

Knocking three kernels of grain into one. 
Often it was said they ground up the toll, 

Ran out back of the mill through a sly hole, 
Where it was fermented, fixed up so sweet, 

The grain keep a knocking men off their feet. 
The old farm horse lies at rest on yonder hill. 

That so patiently carried grain to mill. 
The sweet yellow corn, strapped upon his back, 

I. white haired and hatless, sat upon the sack, 
No king with a prouder heart, sat the throne, 

As I rode among the flowers full blown. 
The little birds sang to me in high glee, 



40 KINDERHOOK. 

Skipped from branch to branch, chirped from tree to tree. 
But how sadly the scenes are changed to-day, 

For pride and avarice now throng the way. 
Wandering o'er western plains where not a tree, 

A desert wild, not a shrub could I see, 
Stood on great sandy hills, in noonday glare. 

Saw placid lakes, wild beasts mirrored in air. 
Saw the warriors of the plains in array. 

With glittering spears eager for the fray. 
Dance the war dance around the fire glare. 

And heard the war whoop on the midnight air. 
Dance around the pole where bleeding scalp hung. 

And to the Great Spirit their war song sung, 
I have seen wild h^rs^mei swsep o'er the plain. 

With the war whoop, trample upon the slain. 
Face daubed with paint, feathers in streaming hair, 

With arrow to arrow and spear to spear. 
1 have chased the wild buffalo and deer, 

Chased them where the dark rocky mountains rear. 
Here the man is free who lives on the plains. 

No desire to enrich with golden gain. 
Contented live, and draw from nature's store. 

Just enough for nature's wants, and no more. 
I have stood on many a battle field; 

And saw contending armies rack and reel. 
My thoughts go fleeting, I alone pursue. 

Allured and wandering for objects new. 



KINDERHOOK. 4I 

At times I wander lone in forest deep, 

Then again on craggy mountain steep. 
In mute delight still the mind reaches on, 

With eager flight it scarcely reach the dawn; 
So on we go like the affrighted stag, 

On through life, leaping from crag to crag. 
We follow the giddy dance, then the pall, 

Great governments arise and nations fall. 
Elate, my genius spreads her wings, flies, leads, 

I follow, aspiring to greater deeds. 
In Italy's green fields, Araby's desert sand. 

Every heart aspires to better man. 
And kindred nation, beneath kindred skies. 

If great nations fall, so great nations rise. 
The little rivulet on through plains creep. 

While mighty streams on majesticaly sweep. 
The great rivers, the moss banked rippling rill. 

Green fields, the flowers that bloom on the hill, 
Life and inspiration from nature draws, 

Strife and faction guards the ficticious laws. 
The secluded monk, the wandering Jew, 

Are discontented, contented 'tis true. 
The laborer gathers fruits from seeds sown. 

Our thoughts are our's, our consciences our own. 



42 THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 

I mount my Pegasus and away I speed, 

Eager I follow where my genius leads; 
If I should write of cruel war, my muse, 

Perhaps, a much sublimer theme might choose. 
Apollo has so oft toyed with my brain, 

To let my genius rest, 'twould give me pain. 
Tis so decreed, to fill some future plan 

That cannot be seen on the earth by man. 
For at times great nations become enraged, 

Then in bloody war, men become engaged. 
In deadly feuds, as wild beasts of the wood. 

Tearing each other and rolling in blood. 
Like maddened lion's pent-up loudly roar, 

Imbueing each others lank jaws in gore. 
With a hot lolling tongue he ilies o'er the plain 

Or lies in the jungle with wounded pain. 
Or among woody hills, still in death lay. 

Weltering in their gore, the vultures' prey. 
Scarce one feud cease ere another's begun. 

And so away on, the world madly run 
Like affrighted o.xen of Affric's train. 

Running wildly o'er hill and plain; 
Affrighted by the tigers of the wood. 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 43 

Growling in pursuit, eager for blood. 
Wheels rattling down the rough, rocky steep, 

Bounding over the roads and wildly leap, 
Running through the woods and over the land. 

Sending up whirling clouds of dust and sand; 
With nostrils extended, hot lolling tongue. 

From wide gaping and foaming mouths, red hung. 
Scattering wagons on the dusty way, 

Broken wheels and torn lines here and there lay; 
The huge wagon over through brush rattle. 

Running zigzag, by six yoke of cattle. 
Plunging along, drawing their heavy load, 

Scattering the freight along the road. 
Plunging, go headlong down the rocky way, 

Oxen and wagons all in confusion lay. 
So nation, like affrighted cattle fly. 

Until the nation in confusion lie. 
The mighty ship will cross the raging main, 

And sail to foreign lands for golden gain; 
So kings and queens will battle for a crown, 

Scattering death and destruction around. 
For great nations are made up but as men. 

That in bloody feuds and quarrels contend; 
Men may war and slash, hew each other down, 

And yet this great earth will roll round and round. 
Great wars and strife may desolate the land, 

We must abide, for this is earth and man. 



44 THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 

But hark! now the sound of war's dread alarms 

Calling the hosts of war, to arms, to arms; 
Through the streets horsemen speed, wild, here and there. 

Carrying the news from house to house, of war; 
Lovers silent mounting steeds in hot haste, 

Tearing from weeping maidens fond embrace, 
Their once bright, sparkling, joyful, laughing eye, 

The breast once warmed with joy, now sends a sigh. 
Young, exultant men, with high hopes adorn, 

Bereaved and broken hearted maidens mourn; 
Lovers walking sad in the lonely grove, 

Plighting vow to vow, eternal love; 
Silently reclining on mossy seat. 

In the far off, lonely, woody retreat, 
With pallid cheek pressed against her lovers breast, 

Sighing for the bright day, 'twill give her rest. 
Fathers weeping in secret, trembling drew, 

To give their blessing, bid their sons adieu. 
Mothers weeping, wrung their hands and cried; 

Affrighted children, trembling by their side; 
Maids in their lovers' arms, lie weeping, 

Hatless horsemen in the saddle leaping; 
Grey haired sires on crutches tottering came. 

Tell of deeds to fan patriotic flame. 
How he had fought on many a iield and bled. 

And of soldiers' glories and honored dead. 
And the greatest of all the soldiers name. 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 43 

Then with crutch to shoulder he would take aim. 
Along the streets cannon carriages rattle, 

Swinging into line, forming for battle; 
Horsemen riding sWiftly from post to post, 

O'er the hills and woods, to war's mighty host. 
The white tents dot the hills and valleys low. 

Unfurled to the wind, flags of friend and foe; 
Through the woods campfires send a flickering light. 

Songs of war are heard in the dead of night. 
Martial music to raise the soldiers' ire. 

And on the distant hills gleamed the watch fire; 
Sentinels pace along their lonely post. 

Every soldier feels himself a host; 
On the morning breeze the wild drum alarms. 

Beating, beating, calling men to arms; 
Pickets placed in some secluded retreat. 

Watching with a keen eye, pacing their beat. 
Along the railroad rolls the rattling cars. 

Freighted with the dread munitions of war; 
Nearer to each other drew the battle lines, 

While huge ramparts the hills and vales entwine; 
Hospital tents, beneath waving green o'er head. 

Like a whitened sepulcher for the dead. 
Where the cruel torture of war deride. 

And the mangled limbs cut and cast aside. 
Torn and battered soldiers in battle fall. 

Probe the fevered wound, extract the ball; 



46 THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 

While piles of slain lie heaped on every side, 

•Heaped up along the line of battle tide. 
The thundering artillery of Jove, 

Abashed, silent, in the realms above, 
The dying soldier turns his death dimmed eyes 

Glaring toward the unpitying skies; 
Ye Gods, to pity mortal man refrain, 

To unfold the lowery clouds, give them pain. 
All along great ditches dug deep and wide. 

Lay the stark mangled forms on every side. 
Up from the hills, the vales, lines of men, 

With exultant yell the tainted air rend. 
Deep in the breast sinks the ball with a thud. 

Spurting from the battered wound the life blood; 
The whistling ball goes crashing through the bone 

Of men falling with a faint, stifled groan. 
Ramparts of logs around the city lie. 

Great bags of sand lay piled up deep and high. 
Lines of artillery stand side by side. 

Pointing from deep embrasures gaping wide. 
Sending hundred pound balls with deadly aim, 

Enveloping the port with smoke and flame. 
Crash on crash, 'till the earth was all ajar, 

Quaking from the artillery of war. 
Men yelling, shells screeching in their flight, 

And thus provokes the demon of the night. 
Starry flags by hundreds fluttering in the air, 



KINDERHOOK. 47 

Unfurled and sparkling in the noonday glare. 
Men kneeling, hands uplifted to the star, 

Invoking the aid of the God of war; 
Men in rank and file marching along. 

Hearts cheered up light by patriotic song; 
The rolling drum, the sharp notes of the fife, 

Cheering up brave hearts for the deadly strife. 
Long lines whirling in place the lines to fill, 

Gathering on Atlanta's rugged hills; 
Sherman on horse galloping here and there. 

Forming in lines the solid rank of war. 
Hood had drawn his sword, ready for the fight, 

And gathered there the southern in their might. 
In the street, o'er the hills in lines they lay. 

With bayonets fixed, eager for the fray; 
Soon to plunge into battle's raging flood, 

And lift the sword imbued with human blood. 
Whole corps of men staggering blindly came 

With impetuous leaders mid the flame. 
Face begrimmed, hands imbued with human gore. 

Weak from bleeding wounds from every pore. 
The cannon's loud roar the still morning broke. 

Like rolling thunder, the welkins awoke. 
Battle smoked flags float along the line, 

Torn and battle scarred, unfurled to the wind. 
Colors of blue trimmed and tasseled with gold. 

Above the ramparts to the breeze unfold; 



48 THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 

Held aloft by undaunted hands on high, 

To cheer the soldier on to do and die. 
In heaps lay the mangled corpse of the slain, 

Like surf-beaten drift, high heaped on the main; 
The gnarled oak fell by the swift cannon ball. 

Crushing the wounded, dying by the fall. 
Clouds of smoke driven scattered in the air, 

Driven by huge shells bursting here and there. 
Bullets fly past, whistling by the ear. 

Exultant cry, victorious shouts, cheer on cheer; 
Then the wild yell on the midnight air, raise 

Along the line one continuous blaze. 
Out shoot the spirits of fire, quick, vivid glare. 

Like the ftre-fly's light on the midnight air; 
For victory's wreath, panting, breath enflame. 

All and each as fight but for the same. 
Thrusting their swords into each others heart, 

Drawing the blood stained blade, new rage impart: 
By night, by day, Sherman's lines grow stronger. 

Around the battle scarred city, longer. 
Coiling surely until the two ends meet 

Like the serpent crushes before it eats. 
Solid shot goes sweeping through carved oak hall. 

Where sacred emblems on the frescoed wall. 
In the mazy gay dance was gathered there, 

Atlanta's gallant sons and ladies fair; 
Maidens loved, soft eyes looked love to eyes, 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 49 

Arms encircle waist, how quickly the moments fly, 
Cars freighted with Macon's wit and beauty, 

Up from that far famed southern city. 
The deserted church bell, on sabbath tolling, 

Christian carriage through the street rolling. 
Invoking God, victory be given 

To the southern, asking aid of heaven. 
So devoted prayers are heard on either side. 

On bended knee, ask of God to stay the tide. 
Man in his destined wa3'ward course must run, 

As true as the rising and setting sun. 
Down through the streets huge balls come crashing. 

Tender infants from mothers arms dashing, 
Affrighted children to their mothers cling, 

Oh! affrighted, mercy has taken wing, 
The laughing, happy bride of but a day, 

Blanched cheek, cold in death, bleeding and torn lay. 
The cruel war has done its work and more. 

Leaving many a beating heart sick and sore. 
Unsatiated yet, it rushes wild 

Through parlors, destroying the playing child. 
The war worn youth and those whose heads are grey, 

Gather at their homes to worship, to pray, 
With uplifted hands and hearts beating, 

Tear bedimmed eyes, tear bedimmed eyes meeting. 
Matron weeping with heavy heart laden, 

While sat affrighted the tender maiden, 



) THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 

Clattering hoofs of steeds rushing to and fro. 

Mingling with the cries of infants' woe; 
Still in spite of tears, and prayers of sages, 

The cannon roar on, the battle rages. 
Man has grappled with man in deadly strife. 

Clashing arms to arms for each other's life; 
Heaven at times withdraws her protection, 

Lets man run wildly on to destruction. 
And to either side aid will not be given, 

By prayers invoked to the host of heaven. 
Hooker crossed the Peach Tree, formed in the vale. 

Forming in platoons, with arms atrail; 
Bugles sounded the charge, drums beat the long roll, 

Deep mouthed cannon shook earth from pole to pole. 
Now Hood's marshalled force charged again and again. 

Against Newton's stout ranks with shouts in vain, 
Surging like the upheaving ocean wave. 

Enveloping with fire and smoke the Union braves. 
Like the ocean waves dashing against the rock. 

Wave on wave beat, trembling with the shock, 
Foaming and surging on the angry main, 

Caught by a new wave, driven back again; 
Wave meeting wave in the wild ocean roar, 

Casting its foam on the surf beaten shore; 
Billows like mountains, by tornadoes fanned, 

Heaping high up, sea weeds torn on the strand. 
Leaden bullets, like hail, fell thick around. 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 5 I 

Ranks mixing with ranks, confusion abounds, 
Lines marching forward and lines retreating, 

The dread long roll, the wild drums beating; 
On, steadily on, the lines of Sherman came, 

Led by Hooker, in clouds of smoke and flame; 
Bayonets fixed, in platoons, swept the field. 

Mingled line with line, clashing the steel, 
Heated cannon roar, the rifles' quick, sharp crack, 

Steadily on, pushing Hood's forces back; 
"Forward, forward, charge," still the order ran, 

Until lapped on Newton, who led the van; 
Then along the line burst forth a dead roar. 

Like a tornado bursting the forest o'er. 
Clouds of smoke, whirling in the wind, arise. 

Deafening roar of battle arms rend the skies, 
Double charged cannon belched forth vivid glare, 

Echoing back through the hot, murky air; 
On, on, came Hood, as if by furies led, 

Until the battle lines were gory red, 
But Sherman's lines stood like a wall of rock, 

Or mountain shore, undaunted by the shock. 
Lines on lines they came, leading hope forlorn, 

But were driven from the field, bleeding, torn. 
Powder smoked, beclouded sun, gory red. 

Casting a somber shadow o'er the dead. 
Now, the flags that were but an hour ago. 

Flaunted in the face of the insulting foe, 



52 THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 

Stand side by side, fluttering in the breeze, 

Held by friendly hands by stern war's dec^rees; 
While comrades of each were gathering the dead. 

The stark, stiff, ghastly forms all gory red. 
Ditches were dug on the field, long and wide. 

Friend and foe were dragged and laid side by side; 
Equally laid low the poor, the rich, the proud, 

Nought but the coarse, brown blanket for a shroud. 
No mother, wife, or sister standing near. 

No woman to shed the pitying tear; 
The harsh, cold earth, thrown by a harsher hand. 

Over the mangled form, once pride of the land; 
Inspired by patriotic zeal alone, 

A rough board placed at the head, marked unknown 
Some were piled in great heaps and dirt, 

Not to be startled by the cannon's report; • 
Guns lay scattered and twisted here and there. 

Showing the desperate struggle of war; 
Balls, battered swords, broken, o'er the field lay. 

The sad effect of the bloody affray; 
Bayonets driven into stiffened forms, 

That lay torn and stiff amid broken arms; 
Bayonets bent and broken lay around, 

And pools of clotted blood covered the ground. 
In bivouac of camp again at night, 

At the break of day to renew the fight; 
Pickets sullenly firing the random gun, 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 53 

The morning broke forth with smoke bedimmed sun. 
The pits of the videttes sciunded the alarms, 

The drum beat the long roll, to arms, to arms; 
Silver bugles sounded the battle lore, • 

From the hills and vales poured forth Hardee's corps, 
With yells like demons they rushed from the wood. 

In heavy lines came like a sweeping flood; 
But McPherson, like a lurking lion lay, 

Crouching in jungle, watching for the prey. 
On came Hardee's column in solid form. 

Bursting on McPherson like the mountain storm. 
Bursting in all its fury on the plain, 

Bending the mighty forest in twain, 
Sending the sturdy, stout oak to the ground, 

Scattering the mighty forest around, 
Tearing and hurling huge trees down the steep. 

Sending them crosswise, in lines and in heaps. 
Twisting limbs and sending them here and there, 

Shattered and torn, whirling through the air; 
So ran the battle on that bloody day, 

On Atlanta's hills where McPherson lay, 
Holding the left wing of Sherman's line, 

That around the far famed city entwined. 
Solid shot splitting trees with a fell crash, 

The "twing" of minnie balls, bayonets' clash; 
Like lions pent up at bay, cannon roared. 

Bayonet crossed bayonet, sword crossed sword; 



54 THE SIEGH OF ATLANTA. 

Far above the din the battle cry raise, 

Breast to breast, guns muzzle to muzzle blaze; 
Affrighted horses wildly run to and fro. 

Trampling through the ranks of friend and foe. 
Saddle empty, leaping o'er ditch and wall, 

Emptied by a relentless minnie ball. 
Then speeding away o'er the hill and plain. 

Saddle bullet scarred, red with bloody stain; 
A solitary sharpshooter's quick eye 

Sees a swift riding horseman dashing by. 
Then with a steady hand the rifle raise. 

Then a quick, sharp crack, then the smoky blaze. 
With a certain aim, quick darts the ball speeds, 

One soldier less to tell of gory deeds. 
McPherson fell, a country's loss to mourn. 

Snatched in the time of need, bleeding and torn. 
The smoke rolls up, the bloody scenes display 

The up-torn field now robed in clouds decay; 
O'er the broad expanse I stand and gaze around, 

The distant roar like broken thunder's sound, 
Like a sweeping wind through the forest roar. 

Or mountain wave beating the rocky shore. 
The eagle's broad wings to the wind unfold. 

Fluttering triumphant, trimmed with fretted gold; 
The shooting shell a firy orb display; 

Like a meteor's flight o'er the eastern way. 
On came the lines of brave, determined men, 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 55 

Fired and wild, as if led by a fiend; 
Sons', uniform of war all stained with gore. 

With hands imbued with blood, their fathers tore. 
Plunging bayonets in each other's breast. 

And tear the gaping, fevered wound afresh; 
Heated cannon, smoking with deadly roar, 

Rolling along the lines, from shore to shore. 
The men of the north are arrayed in their might, 

The men of the south equipped for the fight; 
Laden with soldiers came the rattling car. 

Marching to the field, forming lines of war, 
Up from deep ravines leaped ranks of men, 

With exultant yells the smoky air rend; 
Hatless horsemen gallop here and there. 

Sounding loud and long the trumpet of war; " 
Great solid shots plow through the ranks of men. 

Cannon roared and blazed, curling smoke ascend, 
Fainting soldiers lie, weak from bleeding wounds, 

Their only bed is their own blood stained ground, 
With a dragging pulse and a heart beating low, 

Waiting for the angel to stop its flow; 
Peal on peal, till the earth was all ajar, 

Fell crash on crash, from the dread arms of war; 
From blood stained ground, sickening vapors rise. 

Till the sun is darkened, clouded in the skies; 
Smoky, clouded day, sickening at the sight. 
Veiled the bright orb of day as shades of night. 



) THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 

Contending with more than human wild hate, 

Frantic, 'mid burnished steel, trusting to fate. 
Shotted death from smoking, heated cannon leap. 

Smoking and heated, across trodden fields sweep. 
Ouick cannon flash till all redden the sky, 

Up curls sulphurous smoke, whirling high. 
Sharp edged steel clash against sharp edged steel. 

Till gory corpse lay on the trodden field; 
Dead and dying lay thickly strewn around. 

On the up-torn, hoof-beaten, bloody ground. 
On, sweeping on, in steady lines they came, 

Amid thick, curling smoke and lurid flame. 
Atlanta, unrelenting, was entombed. 

The cruel fate of war has so decreed, doomed. 
Young, tender babes, hungered, weeping, lying 

In mothers' arms, wounded, bleeding, dying. 
A ruthless ball tore the fount that nourished. 

Once bright, laughing babe, its young life cherished, 
Once rosy cheek, sparkling, laughing eye, 

Scarce strength for a murmur, too weak to cr}'. 
Firy shells screeching through the smoky way. 

Hissing in mockery at the bloody fray. 
Now the two armies meet, they sway, they bend. 

Like two great oceans, rival waves contend; 
Rifles crack sharp, huge brazen cannon boomed, 

Around the war beleagured city doomed. 
Clouds of sulphurous smoke hung low drooping down. 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 57 

Ears torn asunder by the dead, broken sound. 
High raised walls on Atlanta's ill fated plains. 

Round the doomed city, nought but terror reigns. 
Contending lines, broken, bleeding, back reel. 

Reeking in blood, driven by pointed steel. 
So rules cruel fate of war, stern decree. 

To destroy and wreck on war's gory sea. 
Powder smoked, begrimmed soldiers, arms drew. 

Children, affrighted, from house to house t^ew. 
Soldiers, breasts warmed with patriotic flame. 

Fired with deeds of glory, a soldier's fame. 
Fire-lit bombs shoot the sultry, midnight air, 

Like curved streaks of lightning, or shooting star; 
Affrighted birds flew screaming away; 

The wild ambition of men, bloody fray. 
So on the battle raged both gay and night. 

The rifle cracked, cannon roared in the fight; 
At last, Sherman massed his force, moved round 

To the rear of the doomed, ill-fated town, 
Marching by corps, with fire and sword, 

Scattering, destroying bridges, railroads; 
The heated rails all torn and twisted lay. 

Desolation, fire and smoke marked the way; 
Burning, destroying southern army store; 

Hood, masked, strove to drive Sherman back again 
With point of bayonet, but all in vain. 

Then like an avalanche Slocum came down. 



o THE SIEGE OF ATLAN'IA. 

Capturing i^uns and munitions of war. 

And raised o'er the city the stripes and star. 
Hood gathered his clan, moved south mid the gloom, 

And left the war scarred city to its doom. 
The cannon now have ceased their deadly roar. 

Nor startle the welkins from shore to shore. 
And now all silent lay the country o'er. 

Soldiers gather round the camp lire at night, 
And tell of deeds of valor in the fight, 

And sing their songs of home, and letters write. 
The ramparts that once with hot cannon blazed. 

And along the lines clouds of blue smoke raised, 
Now all silent and untenanted lay; 

A gentle breeze has cleared the smoke away; 
New made graves mark the country here and there. 

Showing the sad work of cruel war; 
The sentinel a drowsy vigil keep, 

No rifie crack to rouse him from his sleep; 
Knapsack unstrung, rifle against a tree. 

Wrapped in blanket, head resting on the knee. 
Sees the foe marching in the moon's pale beam. 

Starting, grasps the rifle, 'tis all a dream. 
Head confused, rubs his eyes, sits down again, 

Hums some song to keep awake, but in vain. 
No blaze shoots out from some secluded nook, 

Nought is heard save the rippling of the brook. 
Sherman at his headquarters on the hill. 



THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 59 

Orderlies lounging here and there at will. 
Guards sleepily pace their beat of the day, 

Hacked and broken swords around the tent lay, 
Trains unguarded stand, corralled "by the run. 

The beasts lie basking in the noonday sun, 
The staff lounge lazily under the trees, 

The flag, unfurled, scarce flutters in the breeze. 
Guards on relief around the quarters lay, 

At games and songs while away the long day. 
In company wandering in the grove. 

Or alone over the battle field rove; 
Wandering o'er the silent field afar, 

Gathering balls as mementoes of war, 
Houses shattered by the hot, bursting shell. 

That hissing hot and unrelenting fell; 
Crippled soldiers, on crutches walk the street. 

Or stand in knots and groups, their comrades greet. 
Old sol once more lights up the. woody dale, 

The morning breeze has lifted the smoky veil. 
The birds chirp, flutter in the morning breeze. 

Singing their happy songs among the trees; 
Not affrighted by lines of enraged men, 

Their songs of each other in sweet cadence blend. 
The city once more in joyful peace reign, 

The sun, unclouded by smoke, shines again; 
The'bones of war's victims scattered around, 

Unburied lie, broken, whitening on the ground. 



60 THE SIEGE OF ATLANTA. 

Children once more in happy groups are seen. 

Romping in glee on the shady green; 
The youth, in wanton play the hours beguile, 

Prayers unbroken* are heard in the aisle. 
From the pulpit, in peace the gospel sound. 

And singing of songs, to heal the heart's wound. 
O! cruel war! unwanton, bloody strife! 

Destroying saint and sage and youthful life; 
Man may sound the trump, dread carnage of war, 

Spreading desolation and sorrow afar; 
If the race forgets and heaven defy. 

And if provoked the powers on high, 
Man may engage in bloody feuds" affray. 

Yet the world will roll on its destined way; 
The moon and the star will shine just as bright. 

When the worlds in peace, or engaged in fight; 
And poets will write and give out their song. 

And gallop Pegasus weary along. 



ZAGONVI'S CHARGE. 6 1 



ZAGONYI'S CHARGE. 

When the wild, shrill bugle 

Sounded forth dread war's alarms, 

The distant roll of the drum. 
Calling men to arms! to arms!! 

Mothers stood with hearts fast beating, 
Wild horsemen rode here and there, 

Forming deep, long battle lines. 
Bravely to meet the fates of war. 

Pale cheeked maidens, with tearful eyes, 
With a kiss bade their lovers go; 

Soon the clanking hoofs were heard 
O'er hills and fields to meet the foe. 

Each steed cast his mane high in air. 
While his wild eyes flashed fire. 

Rode each rider with stiffened rein, 
His very soul burnt with ire. 

On o'er Missouri's rolling plains, 

On the wild steeds' hoofs thundered, 

On o'er Springfield's hot, dusty road, 
On, on, rode the brave three hundred. 



62 ZAGONYI'S CHARGE. 

On they rode like the rushing wind, 

With blades in hand that we could trust. 

With freedom's flag waving o'erhead; 
No, never can it trail in the dust. 

Six hundred horsemen to the left of them; 

Artillery lay on the right, 
But on, on came the Union band, 

Swift as an eagle in its flight. 

Thousand warriors in front of them, 

Like maddened beasts roused from their den, 

With swords glittering in the sun. 
Stood in line the southern men. 

Halt! rang the warrior's clarion voice. 

Then round him drew the faithful band. 
Loud the trumpeter blew his horn; 

"Right wheel into line." the order ran. 

Shoulder to shoulder, warriors sat, 

Eager steeds' eyes flashed fire. 
As they breast the insulting foe, 

Every heart burned with ire. 

Then out the brave Zagonyi cried, 
"Let every soldier leave the rank 

That is afraid to follow me. " 
No, no, not a soldier shrank. 



ZAGONVl'S CHARGE. 63 

With the stars and stripes o'erhead, 

A leader with a heart of steel, 
Where, oh! where is the soldier, 

For once could desert the held? 

•'Open order," was the command, 

"Draw saber," then quick flashed the steel; 
Every heart beat in unison, 

In unison to gain the field. 

"Charge, forward march," the order ran 
With shouts that seemed to rend the air, 

'Mid rattling hoofs and clanking steel. 
With dust and din and streaming hair. 

Each horseman strove to be the first 
To strike the foe; on they thundered 

Though the bullets flew thick and fast; 
On, still on, rode the three hundred. 

In solid ranks the foe there stood. 

Determined not to give the field; 
With bayonet in line affixed, 

Abreast held the glittering steel. 

But on, on rode the Union host. 

Like a tornado sweeps the field. 
Rank met rank; in the noonday sun 

Flashed and glittered the burnished steel. 



64 ZAGONVl'S CHARGE. 

Quickly darts the warrior's blade 
At the breast of the foe, and then 

With foaming steeds dart thro' the ranks; 
Here and there wild horse and wilder men. 

Swift as the dart of serpent's tongue. 

As swiftly fell Zagonyi's blade; 
His shouts were heard above the din. 

And wildly his charger neighed. 

Battling for the nation's flag. 

Thro' fire and smoke with a cheer, 
Battling bravely for the right, 

Their country's flag, to them so dear. 

Galloping over the bloody field. 

With a wild dash, when came the cry 
From the ranks of Union men. 

Amid the smoke: "they fly, they fly." 

The battle now is o'er, all is still; 

Side by side on the bloody gro\ind 
Lay horse, and bleeding friend and foe; 

Friend and foe thickly strewn around. 



WOMEN AND WINE. 6$ 



WOMEN AND WINE. 

I started out once and wandered o'er 
Through the land, to see if I could find 

A man that lived upon this great earth 
That did not love women nor love wine. 

I saw the tawny handed sailor 

Brave the storms and the wild billows' motion. 
For jewels to deck some lady fair, 

Far beyond the storm driven ocean. 

I have seen brave knights with arms contending. 

I have seen them draw the bloody blade, 
I saw them battling in mortal strife. 

For the heart and hand of a sweet maid. 

I saw the farmer in daily toil. 

In the dewy field before the sun rise. 

A light heart singing some love-lit song. 

Cheered through daily toil by some bright eyes. 

I have seen the stout hearted woodsman. 

Cleaving the oak asunder. 
When I saw the cabin in the dell. 

Then sure no longer did I wonder. 



66 WOMEN AND WINE. 

I heard the fisherman's cheery song, 
Away o'er the wild and stormy main, 

And on the rocky, surf-beaten shore, 
A maiden echoed it back again. 

I have seen the pale trooper falter. 

Something came and whispered in his ear, 

Your lady love she hates a coward, 

Then on to the charge with a wild cheer. 

I have seen the brave, wounded soldier. 

With tiuttering breath and tear-dimmed eye. 

But it was for some fair lady love. 
That he rushed into battle to die. 

My soul was enwrapped with gladness. 
To think that a man I did not find, 

As I wandered this world o'er and o'er, 
That did not love women nor love wine. 

Then I took a bright, golden eagle, 
I cried aloud if there I could find 

A man, I would give this golden eagle. 
That did not love women nor love wine. 

Then a man cried from among the crowd, 
"I'll take that eagle that doth so shine. 

For as sure as this world rolls around, 
I never yet loved women nor wine. " 



MOTHER, HOME AND HEAVEN. 6/ 

I stood and gazed: looked somewhat puzzled, 
"The coin is yours; come, take it;" I say, 

I confess his ears were rather long. 

And his laugh sounded just like a bray. 



MOTHER, HOME AND HEAVEN. 

How I love in the woods to stray. 
Among the deep tangled wildwood. 

And pass a lonely hour away. 

Where I've passed my days of childhood. 

And there in pensive thought to sit. 
And thank for good to us given. 

And watch the birds around me flit, 

Thought of Mother, Home and Heaven. 

My eyes are effused with sad tears, 
For those from me have been riven, 

Brothers, sisters, in bygone years, 
Gone to Mother, Home and Heaven. 



68 MUSE. 

This world looks bright and good to me. 
Pleasant hours are to me given, 

But yet I want to come to thee, 

To my Mother, Home and Heaven. 

I know that the great, good Giver, 
Will send a good angel for me. 

To bear me safe o'er the river. 

To angels' home, Mother, with thee. 

I'll try to live for those above. 
Thankful for the pleasure given, 

Thankful to the great God of love, 
For a Home, Mother and Heaven. 



MUSE. 

Come, oh Muse, with all thy heavenly train, 
And lead me through the Elysian plains. 
Oh! fill my soul with poetic fire; 
Erato tune the poetic lyre; 
Euterpe follow in the heavenly train; 
Calliope fill ine with historic fame; 
Clio aid me to a historic name; 
Melpomene lead me to the tragic stage. 
Preserve my songs for the future age; 



TO MY SISTER ALVIRA. 69 

Polyhymnia sing me your sweetest rhymes, 

Sing to me your songs, sweet and sublime; 

Lead me in the mazy dance, Terpsichore, 

Light and gaily o'er the tufted floor. 

Thalia toy with me in comic play; 

Urania show me the starry way. 

Come with the lovely nine, make me glad. 

Cheer me in my lonely hours, so sad. 

Ye lovely maids, of the joyous train. 

Lead me o'er hills, woodlands, field and plain; 

Go with me to yonder lonely, green dell, 

Fill my heart with Venus' potent spell; 

Light my lone hours with placid dreams; 

Awake my soul yet to higher themes; 

Fill my soul with lovely nature blend. 

That my lines may yet be sweeter penned. 



LINES TO MY SISTER ALVIRA. 

We will smoothe back these curls from thy brow, 

For it is pale and chilly now; 
And we will place this rose on thy breast, 

A fit emblem of thy loveliness. 

Thou hast from this earth passed away, 
To the realms of a brighter day; 



70 WE ARE ALL JUMPING. 

Methinks I hear the angels whisper. 
Bearing away thy spirit, sister, 

To angels' home, beyond the river, 
In that bright land of the forever. 

Sister, we'll miss thee, but go and rest 
From sorrow, in the home of the blest. 

Yes, go sister, to thy home on high. 
Where no sad tear will bedim the eye; 

We will not mourn thee, but prepare 

For the angel home, and meet you there. 



WE ARE ALL JUMPING. 

We are all jumping through the world. 
And trying what we can do; 
The miser is jumping for gold 

And the notes and bills that are due. 

The merchants are jumping for cash. 
And to show their goods, cheap and new. 
And the dry goods, what a dash, 
Oh! yes, he is a jumper too. 

The farmer is jumping for gain, 
Laboring hard all day in the field; 
Plows, sows, reaps the golden grain. 

That his cribs and barns may be filled. 



WE ARE ALL JUMPING. 7 I 

The lawyers are jumping for fee, 
They'll tell you your case is sound; 
Then they will make a jumping plea, 

And then the money must come down. 

The doctors are jumping, too. 
They are jumping with their pills, 
And if you ask them what they'll do. 

Why, sir, they will jump for all ills. 

The soldiers they are all jumping, 
Yes, for honor and a great name. 
And their hearts still keep a thumping. 
For a soldier's glory and fame. 

The polititians they will jump. 
And sing you their favorite song 
On the rostrum, or on the stump, 

They'll tell you which is right or wrong. 

The poets they will jump, not for a name, 
For sure, that they can never find; 
Neither wealth, nor glory nor fame, 
But only jump to free their mind. 

We are all jumping in our sphere. 
And we are all jumping one way; 
And we all must jump from here, 
To a lighter and a better day. 



72 LITTLE GLEANER. 

LITTLE GLEANER. 
Happy is the little gleaner. 

Tripping o'er the green lawn, 
And bearing on willing shoulders. 

Bundles of sweet, yellow corn. 

Yes, willing we should labor, 

Labor with a will and with care. 

Go and toil among the hedges, 
Out in the streets, or anywhere. 

Go out in yon lonely alley. 

Never mind how thick the briars stand. 
Perhaps some poor little stranger 

Is asking for a helping hand. 

Down in yonder lonely dwelling. 
Perhaps some little one is there. 

Asking for someone to aid them. 
To aid them with your tender care. 

Go and glean among the thistles. 

There may be some sweet flower there. 

Bring them out with light around them. 
Rightly do and nobly dare. 

Go and labor while the day lasts, 

With a willing heart, kind and true. 

Never despair in well doing. 

And the future will reward you. 



THE FOREST HOME. 73 



THE FOREST HOME. 

How sad to my heart are the scenes round me to-day 
As away from the toils and tumults I have strayed. 

While thro' the green forest the golden moonbeams play 
Around me as I sit in the old oaken shade. 

How dear to my heart is the old forest home, 

Where oft alone, in my boyhood days I have played. 

Through the deep shady dell I loved for to roam, 

And in the cool, shady bower, at noon I have strayed. 

The fish pond that was nigh us, you know, uncle Ben; 

That by a deep, dark, tangled forest surrounded. 
In the old log boat, on the blue waves, our songs, when 

In our boyhood days, from shore to shore resounded. 

But, alas! how changed the scenes are now, uncle Ben, 
It is not now what it was thirty years ago; 

When neighbors lived in oaken cots as neighbors then. 
Not in vain, decorated mansions for a show. 

Many are the sad tears shed at the thought, uncle Ben, 
When fond recollection brings back those boyhood days. 

And while I am sitting here in the deep, dark glen, 
I almost hear the glad shouts of childish plays. 



74 AN ORISON. 

Gone, all gone the way we must soon go, uncle Ben, 
It will not be long, for our heads are turning grey; 

A few years, uncle Ben, not many more, when 

In the dark and silent tomb, with them we must lay. 



AN ORISON. 

Great Father of light, unto Thee we cry; 
An orison we send to Thee, on high; 
A blessing give to us mortal being, 
O'er us Thou art ever watching, seeing. 

Let the bow o'er us in effulgence shine; 
Give blessing to the nations of every clime; 
Let angels hover o'er us through life, 
Aid and protect us through this earthly life. 

Lead all of the nations in the path of right; 
Hold Thy hand o'er the poor, and all wrongs blight 
Remove every pang from every aching breast; 
Guide us all on our way to that sweet rest. 

Pour heaven's light into the valleys low; 
Turn from us poor mortals, every earthly woe; 
To those that's sick and weak of heart, give cheer; 
Go to the weeping one and dry the tear. 



LINES TO RIZPAH. 75 

Remember the poor widow with her care, 
Protect her through this life from earthly snare; 
Remember the orphan's heart-aches and pains; 
Let not their cry unto Thee be in vain. 

Let angels hover over us by day; 
Let angels guide us on this earthly way; 
And when we leave this earthly portal, 
Let angels lead us to life immortal. 



LINES TO RIZPAH. 

On Lake Lavina's deep, dark blue, 
Lightl}' she guides her light canoe, 
As twilight dims the blue lake o'er, 
And wild waves lash the pebbled shore. 
Over the waves joyous she rides. 
Her wild laugh is heard o'er the tide; 
Wild ducks slow o'er the waters fly; 
The white breasted loon gives its cr/; 
The sharp chirp of the whip-o-will 
Is heard o'er the distant hill. 
The heron flies sluggish away, 
The birds sing to the parting day. 
Rocking o'er the waves, she rides along, 
Singing some wild and cheery song, 



76 TWO LITTLE MAIDS. 

She laughs in glee and dips the oar 
To yon white cot upon the shore, 
With flushed cheek and happy heart, 
That's ne'er beeri touched by Cupid's dart; 
Loosely and careless in the air, 
Streams in the wind her auburn hair; 
Amid the snow-capped waves' wild roar. 
She lands her boat upon the shore; 
The winding path she trips along. 
Cheered by the birds' evening song; 
Down the path the cur leaps in play. 
To meet her on her homeward way; 
Around her leaps the playful cur; 
Puss fondly comes with welcome pur; 
Happy Rizpah, joyous and free, 
Would that all the world were as free. 



TWO LITTLE MAIDS. 

Two little maids, in romping mood, 
Went slyly to a neighboring wood, 
Their shoes and stockings off they took. 
Then jumped into a little brook, 

And splashed the water in high glee; 
They thought even the birds couldn't see. 



TWO LITTLE MAIDS. 7/ 

But back in the clustered brush, 

Slyly peeped the jay and the thrush. 

A magpie came flying that way 
And peeped to see the girls at play; 
The birds winked as only birds will, 
Chided each other to keep still. 

These little maids, tender and shy. 
Thought they were hid from every eye. 
Laughing, romped these little maids. 
Under the trees, in the cool shade. 

The little birds played bo-peep 

With half closed eyes, when water grew deep. 

They romped and played in highest glee, 

But never once thought that birds could see. 

Slyly near, the little birds flew; 
A dove it gave a plaintive coo; 
Then an owl came flying by 

And perched on an old limb so high. 

"Hoo! boo!!" said the owl over the stream; 
Away ran the girls with a scream, 
And hid away in the dark wyod, 
As slyly as shy maidens could. 



yS WAITING. 



WAITING. 

There was a pretty maiden; 

That dwelt o'er yonder hill; 
In a little cottage brown, 

By a little rippling rill. 

And just beneath the window, 

Clustered the jessamine. 
And around the cottage door 

Wound the tender ivy vine. 

The wild rose there sweetly bloomed. 
And near clustered the blue-bell; 

Near by gurgled the clear spring. 
Where the pearly waters fell. 

A plowboy loved the maiden. 
That lived just 'neath the hill, 

Who arose at early dawn, 
His father's farm to till. 

Now John was a hardy lad, 
Truly loved the maiden fair. 

But being of a faint heart, 
His love could not declare. 



WAITING, 79 

At times, around the cottage linger, 

Linger in the evening breeze, 
As it gently glided through 

And rustled the maple trees. 

Mary was a romping lass, 

Of sweet sixteen summers fair, 
With black, sparkling, laughing eyes, 

Wavy, flowing, raven hair. 

And she loved the farmer boy. 

And truly she loved him well; 
She loved him with a maiden's love. 

Better than pen can tell. 

Often at times they would wander; 

Wander in the maple shade. 
Along the clear, rippling rill, 

Where oft together they strayed. 

And sat beneath the willows. 

And told the story of love. 
That their love should run smoothly, 

By the twinkling stars above. 

As he held her hand gently. 

And pressed it near to his heart, 

And by the stars above them. 
Vowed they would never part. 



8o WAITING. 



At times they sat in the eve, 
Till the falling of the dew, 

And they vowed to each other. 
Their love should ever be true. 

But the cruel war parted 

These lovers, bound so true; 

Johnny went a soldiering, 
Across the wild ocean blue. 

On one bright Monday morning, 
'Twas just at the break of day. 

When he parted with Mary, 

Bade her good bye, sailed away. 

Mary stood, the boat watching, 

Waved her hand, friendship's token, 

"No, no, my dearest Johnny, 
Our love shall not be broken." 

Soon he met his country's foe. 

And bravely marched to battle, 
In the thickest of the din, 

Where swords and muskets rattle. 

Where great cannon loudly roar, 
Johnny bravely met the foe, 

Where bullets flew thick around, 
Alas! a ball laid him low. 



WAITING, 8 1 



The battles all have ended, 
Now the cruel war is o'er. 

And Mary stands a watching, 
Watching- on the rocky shore. 

Mary still is watching. 

Watching on the rocky shore; 
Watching for the far-off sail 

That will bring her lover o'er. 

Though Johnny now lies sleeping 
Far beyond the ocean wave. 

Beneath a lonely willow, 
In a soldier's lonely grave. 

Her eyes no longer sparkle. 
And her cheek has lost its hue, 

For years she has been watching, 
Watching across the ocean blue. 

Her hair is now all silvered. 
And all wrinkled is her brow; 

Her steps are still and feeble, 
But she is true to her vow. 

Oft at eve she'll wandei: 

Beneath the old willow trees, 

Where she with Johnnie rambled, 
In the cool mid-summer breeze. 



MAID OF THE PLAINS. 

Beside the little rill, 

Mary at times sits weeping, 
For Johnny over the waves. 

In a soldier's grave sleeping. 



MAID OF THE PLAINS. 

I once met an Indian girl 

On the plains of Nebraska wild. 

Alone, wandering on the plain, 

Happy and buoyant, nature's child. 

Her long, raven hair streaming hung. 
To the wind, on her shoulders brown. 

A white robe wrapped around her. 
And skipping gaily o'er the ground. 

Her radiant brow, her dark brown cheek, 
Her dark eyes sparkled with delight. 

With a happy, innocent face, 
A set of teeth pearly white. 

"Was sixteen summers old," she said, 
"In yon far mountain is my home; 

Under the willow of the vale, 
But far out I love to roam. 



MAID OF THE PLAINS. 83 

I love the plains, I love the hills, 

I love the little babbling brook, 
I love the mountain in the west, 

I love my home, the shady nook. 

Yon tall, old mossy trees are mine; 

These little flowers are mine, too. 
So is the water in the spring; 

I love the grass, sparkling with dew." 

With bow and arrow in her hand, 

A quiver over shoulder slung. 
Filled with trimmed arrows for the chase, 

And from her belt a slain bird hung. 

"I love to wander o'er these plains, 
For they are all my own," said she; 

"When the sun sinks o'er the mountain, 
I make my bed beneath a tree. 

I drink water from the wild spring 

That bubbles from yon mountain near, 

With my bow all strung, and arrow. 
Chase o'er the plains the timid deer." 

Quickly the little wild maid 

Drew her bow with a quick, sharp sound, 
As a prairie bird was passing by, 

Brought it bleeding to the ground. 



84 EUREKA. 

Then, laughing-, said the little maid. 

**My people live o'er yonder, too, 
And lightly on the mountain stream, 

I paddle my light, bark canoe," 

Then I said to the little maid. 
As she, smiling, turned to me, 

"You seem so happy with your lot, 
I wish I was half as free." 



EUREKA. 

A boy stood by the ladder of fame, 

Impatient at the foot he stood; 
He thought that he might make a name. 

Engraved on gold, on steel, on wood- 
He saw fame smiling at the top. 

Ambition urged him and he sprung. 
With force of will that would not stop; 

He grasped but feebly the rung. 

He grasped with an exultant cry. 

Trembling, feebly he clung. 
Scanning those that passed him by, 

With nerves quickened by fear, he hung. 



EUREKA. 



85 



Tottering by the veering wind, 

He swayed, as by a broken bough; 

All in confusion was his mind, 

A faltering heart with fear o'ert^ow. 

He reached and grasped another rung, 

Up, step by step, fame's high ladder, ' 
Yet trembling, his songs he sung. 
Still yet grew madder and madder. 

He watched the throng with doubt and fear. 

Scarce courage for himself to trust; 
Some waved the hand and gave a cheer. 

While some seemed cruelly unjust. 

Some bid him to go up higher. 
Some pointed the finger of scorn. 

His heart, at times, seemed on fire. 

At times, he wished he'd ne'er been born. 

Oft at times, weary and fainting, 
But still ambition urged him on, 

Desparing and hesitating. 

And trembling, he sung his song. 

But up higher, his heart grew strong. 

And he sung with a voice more clear; 
As the populace passed along, 

They waved the hand with cheer on cheer. 



86 EUREKA. 

When they saw him rising higher. 

Some would stand and look with wonder, 
Ask him why he had such desire; 

'Twas folly, and turn asunder. 

Every step, stronger he grew. 

More firmly stepped from rung to rung. 

And nearer to the top he drew, 
More exultant his songs he sung. 

He leaped with an exultant cry, 
And on the coveted top he stood. 

And far above the passers by. 

With joyous shouts that fired his blood. 

\'^auntingly threw his cap on high, 
And on the wind he threw his song; 

Some fell far away, some fell nigh, 

And some fell among the moving throng. 

And o'er the world, his songs they flew, 
His heart enwrapped with joyful flame. 

And still he sung his song anew, 

Proud, beating heart, with poet's fame. 

"'Tis finished," he said with delight; 

Loud and long, "Eureka," he cried, 
Trembling with age, his hair white. 

He bowed his head, then wept and died. 



BOYHOOD DAYS. 87 



BOYHOOD DAYS. 

My heart sinks when I think of my days of childhood, 
Of days of long ago, when I bring them to view, 
The duck pond, the mud hole and deep, tangled wildwood, 
And all of these fond spots my boyhood knew. 
The old tamarac swamp where the red willow grew, 
Where mother cut switches, where the spring brook fell; 
Where oft round the house, after kittens I lievv, 
The gay little kittens I threw in the well. 

There was the old oak with its branches spreading wide. 
And the log cot of my father that stood close by it, 
Where oft among its tangled branches I would hide 
From strength in the willow, when mother would try it. 
There is the old cranberry marsh just over the wood. 
The old scraggy willow swamp that was close by , 
Where I've hunted in search of birds' eggs and young brood 
Then in the sun, on an old log, our clothes to dry. 

Then, Will, you know over by the lake, in the hollow. 
Where you and I, laughing, chased the will-o'-the-wisp; 
On the light air it floated, delighted we followed. 
Thro' the marsh and mud water till wet to the waist; 
Then, trembling with fear, we'd reach out to take it, 
But, alas! to our sorrow we found it not there; 



88 BOYHOOD DAYS. 

It would light on a bush, from there we would shake it, 
Then it floated away on the light evening air. 

We thought it might be satan. to lead us astray. 
Bewildering, at each other we'd stand and look; 
With caution we pursued when it floated away, 
Perhaps it was fire, though it might be a spook. 
Then the old log schoolhouse, where we had so much fun. 
In its place now stands one all painted and new; 
The old marsh and willow swamp is now a rich lawn, 
Where Bradford, the teacher, chased mischievous Lew. 

But I look back with fond recollection, dear Will, 
Where, together, to school, thro' the woods we were sent: 
Our teacher, you know, was not fond of a noise. 
When we saw the switch, out of the window we went. 
We studied then, hard, you know. Will, but alas! 
Thro' our books and recitations along we would jog, 
The teacher looked around for one not in the class. 
At last I was found sitting on an old rotten log. 
These were good days then, you know, my dear Will, 
Go to school winters, summers follow the plow; 
My hair is getting grey and I'm growing old, Will, 
Those boyhood days I cannot forget, somehow. 



ELLENNOR, 89 



ELLENNOR. 



Still. sad and lone I wander. 

Wandering still, broken, alone, 

Gone, yes, gone joy forever. 

No ray of hope round me thrown 
Wandering alone, I languish, 
A heart beating with anguish. 

Beating with sorrow rare, 

Ellennor. 

At my lone midnight waking, 
More vivid than lightning glare, 

Louder than peals of thunder, 
Echoing in mountain air, 
Rolling through the murky cloud. 
Oh! the past does me enshroud, 

Oh! still it comes o'er and o'er, 
Ellennor. 

Groping in midnight rambles. 

Grappling with life, to hold it, 
Reaching thro' the mist around me, 

Oh! can I not unfold it? 

Unfold it and see.'* see what? 

See it? no, no, I cannot; 
I feel it, my heart is sore, 

Ellennor. 



90 ELLENNOR. 



Weeping alone, hours of sadness, 
Sadness, sleeping or waking. 

Fleeing, hiding, still it comes. 
It comes, my heart is breaking. 
Turning, fleeing, still the load. 
Sharp and pointed is the goad. 

Oh! the heart can bear no more, 
Ellennor. 

Up at times I start, shrieking. 
From my lonely midnight bed. 

For I thought then I heard you, 
I heard your gentle tread; 
Nearer, nearer, to me drew, 
I would start to enfold you. 

It's all a dream, nothing more, 
Ellennor. 

In my lonely, midnight room, 
Oft, as I sit pondering. 

By the pale, flickering lamp, 
And my thoughts wandering, 
I have heard you then speak me, 

As I would start to meet thee, 
Ellennor. 



THE SEVEN OAKS. 9I 



THE SEVEN OAKS. 

As I stand under these old oaks. 

Their moss-covered limbs wave o'er my head, 
I can view the broad, old plains, 

Where in days gone the red man tread. 

It seems standing on holy ground. 
Where the wild Indian once stood, 

Thanking the Great Spirit, 

For giving him his humble food. 

Oft at times they sang the war song, 

Beneath these old moss-covered boughs. 

Oft times the shout of victory. 
On the dark, midnight air rose. 

As the sun sank in the far west, 
The young Indian warrior strayed, 

To sit beneath the hanging boughs. 
With his dark-eyed Indian maid. 

And at times, near these grand old trees, 

The young Indian mother drew. 
And made her bed beneath the trees, 

To save her infant from the dew. 



92 THE SEVEN OAKS. 

Here they smoked the pipe of peace, 

Here Indian orators stood, 
Giving forth from a flooded soul. 

To his brethren of the wildwood. 

Under these old rough, spreading oaks. 
The little brown Indian played. 

Their happy little hearts beat quick, 

As they romped in glee 'neath the shade. 

Here the wild hunter sat at eve. 
Wearied from the chase of the day, 

His bow and quiver gainst the tree. 
Near by, his faithful dog lay. 

Here, too, sat the Indian brave. 
And to his God the war song sung; 

For falling leaves, his heart was sad. 
Arrows all gone, bow unstrung. 

His loves and battles were o'er; 

No more join the chase, spring the bow, 
His arm was weak, his eyes were dim, 

Soon to the spirit land would go. 

Where now are the brave, the hunter, 
The lover and his dark eyed maid.' 

Where are the young that romped in glee. 
Chased the butterfly through the shade.' 



HOPE. ■ C 

Chasing the falling leaves in wild play, 

Spring the bow with a quick, sharp sound, 

Drive the shaft in some wild bird's breast. 
Bringing it, whirling, bleeding, to ground. 

Gone, all gone to the spirit land; 

Gone to that happy hunting ground. 
Where there are no battles to tight, 

And no more will the war whoop sound. 



HOPE. 

I often heard my neighbors say 
A man lived just over the way. 
And often, I have been so told. 
For sinning he was rather bold; 
With care he was watched by the church. 
For fear he would be left in the lurch. 

So the church took it in their head. 
And thus to each other they said; 
"A camp meeting now we will hold. 
And try to save some precious souls." 
They trimmed up the trees, fixed the ground, 
Everything was straightened around. 



94 HOPE. 

An old Hardshell over the way, 
Was to teach them to sing and pray; 
So saint and sinner gathered in. 
As well those all steeped in sin. 
The preacher rose up in the stand. 
He rolled his eyes and threw his hand, 

Then to the people he did say. 
We need to watch and hope and pray; 
He pictured hell in all its gloom, 
Showing the pangs of the doomed; 
Then he told of heaven's delight, 
Of angels arrayed in robes of white. 

The good old preacher did declare. 
Must hope, if ever you get there; 
He waxed warm, threw his arms about, 
Then all began to loudly shout. 

"I hope," they all began to cry; 

"I hope," the preacher did reply. 

Then they sang songs sonorous; 
They shouted "That is glorious;" 
Then to our sinner they did say, 
"If you lack in hope, brother, pray;" 
Then our sinner began to cry, 
"I hope, I hope, before I die." 



HOPE. 



95 



So there he knelt upon the ground, 

He prayed for hope, and wrote it down; 

He took his hope and laid it away; 

No more need he to watch or pray. 
One day our man was taken sick, 
An old doctor was sent for very quick. 

The doctor felt his pulse to see, 
To find what the matter could be; 
He stood awhile, and then he said, 
"You'll soon be numbered with the dead." 

Unto his wife the man did say, 

"Go get my hope I laid away." 

They looked the shelves all round and round, 
But his hope could nowhere be found. 
For a rat, mischievous and bold, 
Had carried his hope to its hole. 

So he died in his sins, it is true, 

For his hope was gone; couldn't get through. 

A rat had his hope for a nest. 
So the old man's soul found no rest; 
The rat sleeps on, snug in its hole. 
And now, where is the old man's soul.-' 

The poor old rat, he does not know 

He sent the old man's soul below. 



g6 LINES. 



LINES TO MISS N E A M, OF ANGOLA. 

All those lovely queens Greece did adore, 

To these heavenly nine I'll add one more; 

To throw around us love's brij.^ht token, 

To cheer us thro' this life so broken. 

As at eve I view the blue skies, 

I can see the twinklinj^- of bright eyes; 

As I wander along some babbling brook. 

That wells from some deep, dark, shady nook. 

As it goes by, whispering so clear, 

'Tis the voice of the Goddess of cheer. 

The zephyrs go whispering thro' the grove. 

Ah! it is the whispering of love. 

That fills my waking soul with delight; 

Then I see those eyes, so pure, so bright, 

As I sit in some fairy grotto. 

And listen to the falling water; 

There the bow of heaven, in colors gay. 

Hung, in all its glory, on the spray, 

Floated from behind a hidden screen. 

On a fleck of foam, the grotto queen. 

Around her, the warm noon beams play, 

Tho' half hidden in the sparkling spray. 

Through the misty vail, eyes shone so bright. 

I clapped my hands with joyous delight; 



LINES. 97 

In love's daliance, toyed with the bow, 

That around her cast a bright halo. 

Drops of pearly dew sparkled among 

Her wavy tresses, that flowing hung. 

"Beautiful creature," joyfully I cried, 

As she floated over the bubbling tide; 

1 was grieved when she glided away 

And was lost in the sparkling spray. 

Often, in the eve of early spring, 

I wandered to hear the wild birds sing, 

And row my boat o'er some placid lake. 

That nestle low, among wood and brake; 

And sturdy oaks hung along the shore. 

With bending boughs, the lake hanging o'er; 

Loitering in this beautiful shade. 

The "Goddess of cheer," the grotto maid. 

Her smile so sweet, her eyes so bright, 

My heart was enrapt with delight; 

The sun in the west was hanging low. 

That lit the forest with golden glow; 

The birds chirped softly among the trees; 

The leaves scarce fluttered in the breeze; 

Low o'er the water the wild fowl flies; 

Birds, singing, hover low in the skies; 

In the thick, green grove, the lonely dove. 

With its plaintive notes and cooing, love; 

All nature, lulled and quivering laid, 



9»^ THE OLD HOME, 

In the presence of this lovely maid. 
Soon twilight dropped her curtain o'er. 
And I still linger along the shore. 



THE OLD HOME. 

Wife, my heart beat for scenes of long ago. 
So I went back to the old home, you know; 
I wandered o'er the field a summer day, 
You know, wife, where you and I used to play; 
There I drank some water from the old well; 
I reached to dip the water, something fell; 
Through the old field I tottered with my staff, 
I listen in vain for your girlish laugh. 
The old stout oak had grown rotten, and fell, 
But a still, .soft voice came, whispered "all well. 
Wife, I went down to the foot of the hill, 
Where, j^ou know, ran the little rippling rill, 
It babbled and rippled as did before, 
But did not sound as sweet as days of yore; 
There some whortleberries I picked to eat. 
Somehow or other they did not taste as sweet; 
Then went to the spot where we've played 
Mimic keep house, in the old plum tree shade; 
The old plum tree is gone, all rotted away, 
And we've kept house, not in mimic or play. 
Saw the oak where the owl gave a scream. 



THE OLD HOME. 99 

Where you and I sat in the bright moonbeam. 

Then, affrighted, into my arms you fe!) ; 

I knew you were making, but just as vvell; 

Yes, you smile when I mention this to you, 

Well, I'm a little inclined to laugh, too; 

Then and there a promise I gave to you. 

Have I not kept that promise good and true.^ 

For sixty years we have journeyed together 

Through life, arm in arm, through stormy weather. 

The high hills, where you and I would go 

And slide down on the track of baatea snow. 

We sat on the sled, went coasting along. 

Your heart was so pure it knew no wrong; 

So we have coasted, in all kinds of weather. 

We always pulled the sled up together. 

I went down to the willow by the spring. 

Where you and I sat to heir the birds sing; 

They sang their songs as they did long ago. 

But it did not sound as sweet, you know; 

I wandered thro' the deep and wooded vale. 

Where I whispered to you the lover's tale; 

I told you my story and you gave cheer. 

With a flushed cheek, you gave a listening ear. 

As we have journeyed thro' this worldly strife, 

I've found you ever true, a faithful wife; 

Of my sorrow and grief, I'd tell to thee, 

Then a listening ear you would give to me. 



lOO THE OLD HOME, 

I went over to the old brick church, where 

You and I often, when young, knelt in pra3'er. 

As I walked in, I heard a curious sound; 

It looked as if the church had turned around; 

The preacher stood up, read a little prayer, 

A hymn was sung- by what they called a choir. 

A curious way, wife, to give God praise. 

But you know, these are degenerate days. 

A big fiddle in the house of God! 

This is not the way our fathers trod. 

With holy piety I bowed my head. 

My soul was grieved, for it found no bread; 

I looked over the church, I could not stay. 

With a soul grieved for them, I came away. 

If you had "been, and seen the way they do. 

Sure, it would not look like a church to you. 

Well, wife, I'm glad to get back home with you, 

We will jog along until the falling dew. 



TRIAL OF GALILEO. 

Yes, Galileo, the world it does move. 
And with it thy truth too, no sect or creed 
Can ever trample thy philosophy 
'Neath the iron heel of false religion. 
No inquisition could bar that noble 



TRIAL OF GALILEO. lOI 

Spirit, tho' they did bring thy body to 

The rack; with bars and chains did weigh thee down. 

Yet still thou didst endure all the torture 

For the truth's sake, and under thy honest 

Conviction, thou couldst arise and stand face 

To face with the tyrant who sought thy life. 

And hurl back to the blanched cheek of the Pope, 

"Never the less, it does move," despite old 

Theology's frowns. Ah! prejudice, thou 

May'st stamp thy foot, and hurl thy darts of hate. 

But truth, shielded by the honest work of God, 

Will parry the shaft, and blunted, will fall at 

Thy feet, oh truth; on moves the world, and with 

It, the honest work of God. No fickle man 

Can change Thy purpose nor mar Thy works. Thou 

Ruler of this grand universe; He, who 

Holds the center of this sublime system. 

Noble mind, thou didst see that God was just. 

And amid the scoffs and scorns, did live 

As thy philosophy did grow brighter, 

And now, from thy spirit home, thou canst look 

Down and see others struggling for truth. 



102 PARODY ON THE LAST GLASS. 



PARODY ON THE LAST GLASS. 

I am growing old, boys, 
My hair has lost its curl, 

I am sad and lonely, 

For I've kissed my last girl, 

Boys, my last girl. 

I once was young like you. 
And in the dance I'd whirl. 

But those days are gone now. 
And I've kissed my last girl, 

Boys, my last girl. 

I once loved a bright smile. 

I then hated a churl, 
Might not care so much now, 

For I've kissed my last girl, 

Boys, my last girl. 

Often their raven hair, 
On my fingers, I'd twirl, 

Those golden days are gone, 
For I've kissed my last girl. 

Boys, my last girl. 



PARODY ON THE LAST GLASS. IO3 

I've skipped from lip to lip, 

Blythe as the gray squirrel 
In all its wanton play, 

But I've kissed my last girl. 

Boys, my last girl. 

I once loved sparkling eyes, 

That flashed light like the pearl, 

They are not so bright now, 
For I've kissed my last girl, 

Boys, my last girl. 

Remernber this thing, boys, 

As thro' this life you whirl. 
You will grow old, too, boys, 

You will kiss your last girl. 

Boys, your last girl. 



BOADICEA. 

Boadicea, would that thy strength had been 
Equal to thy spirit; yes, half as strong; 
The invader would never have stepped 
Upon Briton's wild and surf-beaten shore. 



I04 BOADICEA. 

What mother there would not have been angered, 
When she saw the tears, her daughter's tears; 
Fierce of spirit, in her chariot stood, 
As the faithful Britons around her drew, 
Pointing to her young and weeping daughters. 
Ruined, she cried in anguish, forever; 
Virtue, woman's adornment, torn away. 
Brave Britons, behold thy weeping daughters, 
Their mothers scourged by the invader's hand, 
Well mayest thou rise in thy might, cry revenge, 
Britons' worthy Queen of the Icenae; 
Well didst thou make the Roman blood atone. 
And London smoke and crackle in the Hame, 
And Briton's soil drink deep of Roman blood. 
Well thy legions fought, fierce and terrible, 
For the homes of thy nation were assailed; 
Thou didst put the Roman eagle to flight. 
And scattered them as the chaff before the wind; 
Now they gather for one mighty effort, 
Suetonis leads the hated Roman, 
Boadicea the sons of the green hills; 
As they gather around their worthy queen. 
Aloft they hold the quivering spear. 
Tighten their armor, the battle ax drew. 
Grasp the arrow and string the rude bow. 
Proud old Roman o'er the hills in phalanx came. 
With burnished helmet and glittering shield. 



BOADICEA. 105 

Their barbed shafts sparkling in the mid day sun. 

Nearer, still nearer, the serried lines drew, 

Boadicea, the brave, wild Britons led, 

With gilded chariot and foaming steed; 

Suetonius, with fretful steed came on, 

With the battle cry, they rushed, rank to rank; 

Swift fleeting arrows, in clouds, filled the air; 

Blood-stained spears rattled 'gainst brazen shield; 

Battle ax clashed against battle ax; 

Shafts reeking in blood, quivered in the air; 

Brazen helmet battered and breastplate pierced; 

Uptorn grass, reeking with human gore lay. 

Fierce was the battle, terrible was the cry. 

Courage cannot fight a battle alone. 

And Briton's long, serried lines were broken. 

The phalanx deep, of Rome, swept o'er the hills. 

Scattering o'er the hills, Britons, broken, fled. 

Swift as the bird flew Boadicea's steed; 

"All is lost," she cried, "Britons, all is lost." 

Then, with a look of scorn and deep despair. 

She drank the dregs of a potent poison; 

Then she waved her hand in defiance back; 

Then, all Rome could do was to cry "Revenge." 



I06 THE LAST STATION. 



THE LAST STATION. 

Friends had gathered around the bed 

Of a brakemau who was dying; 
Sinking lower, lower, at eve, 

Nearing the last station, dying; 

Mind wandering, duty trying. 

Wearied, restless, in slumber lay. 
Till the yard engine whistle blew. 

Then, starting as if on duty. 

Watching and putting a train through. 
Suddenly shouted "Kalamazoo." 

They brushed the hair from his cold brow, 

Then quietly for a time lay; 
The wind whirling around his room, 

With a loose window blind play; 

The train ran on without delay. 

With eyes closed, well he seemed to sleep, 
Unconscious of those standing near. 

But soon, starting by some strange noise, 
"Jackson," he shouted, strong and clear, 
"Passengers going north, change cars here. 



- THE LAST STATION. lO/ 

Then, exhausted, sank for a time. 
Then the men did well understand. 

He thought he was running a train 
Through, on the Central Michigan, 
Where a thousand times he had ran. 

A watcher tried his pulse to see. 

But still faint and weak they labor; 

A tug was running the river, 
It blew as it passed the harbor; 
Then he shouted, "Ann Arbor." 

He was now running his last trip; 

Death was drawing a spectral train 
And he was brakeman on the road; 

His life was ebbing out, 'twas plain 

That never would he brake again. 

The yard engine blew painfully loud, 
As if some foreseen danger near. 

Then he, trembling, called out again, 
"Ypsilanti," with a voice clear, 
"Change cars for the Eel River road here." 

The cold sweat stood on his brow. 
For the Angel of Death had passed. 

His face it wore a ghastly look. 
They saw he was coming in fast; 
They saw this run would be his last. 



I08 WHY IT WAS SO. 

Slamming of a door down the hall, 
Startled him again in his bed; 

"Grand Trunk Junction," he called again, 
"All going east," and moved his head, 
"By the Grand Trunk, change here," he said. 

He lay so quietly after this. 

They all believed he lay in death; 

His eyes closed, lifted his hand, 

He w^hispered with a faltering breath, 
"De " not Detroit, but death. 

The half uttered word died on his lips. 
The headlight fell full in his face, 

On death, engine cast a pallor o'er. 
He had run to the end of the race, 
For the "great change" had taken place. 



WHY IT WAS SO. 

Sit down here, Jim, 
And I will tell you a story. 

I know it's him. 
That man o'er there, whose head's hoary; 

Standing o'er there, with that old hat 
All jammed down on his head, so flat. 
He has been a man for all that. 



WHY IT WAS SO. 109 

His life is sad; 
I'll tell you how it came about; 

It is too bad, 
Kindy', to see how he was put out. 

That old coat was by a kind hand 
Given to him, by some kind friend; 

He once was rich, and lots of land, 

Jim, he once owned; 
But s too bad, sure, it's too bad, Jim, 

But it's all gone. 
Tell you how it was taken from him; 

See, he looks awful sad and down; 
All of the folks here in this town, 

Too bad it's so, all on him frown. 

But see here now. 
It is bad, he has a hard life; 

You see, somehow, 
All'us in trouble, and his wife. 

Too bad, Jim, but in his revel. 
With the old tongs and the shovel, 

Square things round, knock things level. 

I'll tell you, Jim, 
He had some girls, most awful cross. 

Didn't care for him; 
They would jaw and wanted to boss, 



I lO ROGERS AND JONES. 

They would tear around and get mad; 
They did'nt care for their dad; 

'Twas a hard life, it's so, he had. 

The facts are, Jim, 
It looks mighty bad, but it's so, 

Fault lies in him. 
I will tell you, Jim, how I know; 

Whenever to town he would come, 
Goes right straight off and gets some rum. 
And that will make a row at home. 

He looks too rough, 
It looks too hard to see a man so; 

It is enough, 
It is all his own fault you know. 

For rum, he was always so dry. 
You see, now that's the reason why 

He looks so now, Jim, so good bye. 



ROGERS AND JONES. 

Rogers and Jones went out one night 
Late, in town for to see the sight. 
When they got in a terrible plight. 

By imbibing too much of rum. 



ROGERS AND JONES. I I I 

When Rogers says to Jones, "Sir, come. 
It's time we're jogging along home, 

They started along, sometimes bent 
Backward, sometimes forward leant, 
When this way and that way they went. 

When jogging along down the street, 
A wheelbarrow they chanced to meet, 
Down went their heads, up went their feet; 

When Jones and the barrow both fell 

Down in a coal cellar, pell mell; 

Which was the barrow, Jones couldn't tell. 

But a policeman saw his plight. 
Lifted him out and set him right; 
"Now don't be out again this night." 

So off they went a jogging along, 
And singing their favorite song, 
Thinking all right and nothing wrong. 

When Jones unto Rogers did say, 
"Hello, now the devil's to pay. 
Here comes a lamp post in the way." 

When unto a white house they come, 
Says Rogers, "This looks like my home." 
But their heads were so full of rum. 



112 A VISION. 

They could not get any farther; 
They found themselves in a bother. 
Could not tell which was the other. 

When Jones unto Rogers says, "Well, 
I will slip up and ring the bell, 
Have the lady come out and tell 

Which is which, and let t'other go, 

For it is cold here in the snow, 

And then, which is which we will know. 

So off, with a swaggering pace, 
Rung the bell with very much grace, 
The lady came with a wry face. 

"Mrs. Rogers, or Mrs. Jones, 

Can't tell which is which, I'll be blown. 

Tell us, t'other wants to go home." 



A VISION. 

At the hallowed still of night, mother. 

An angel sweetly came, 
Bearing a babe in its robe, mother. 

Oh! of the sweetest form. 



A VISION. I I 3 

Oh! it smiled sweetly on me, mother, 

And it whispered of thee, 
Whispered "tell my dear mother. 

For to not weep for me. 

I have flowery beds of ease, mother, 

Of the sweetest perfume; 
I am happy here, my dear mother. 
In this beautiful home. 

I'll grow to a brighter age, mother, 

And then when you do come. 
With angels, I will wait you, mother. 

To our happy home. 

Our home is bright and good, mother. 

They crown me with flowers, 
They strew them in your path, mother. 

To cheer your lonely hours. 

I am happy in my home, mother. 

The angels will guard thee. 
Then weep not more for me, mother. 

The angels care for me," 



114' LINES. 



LINES TO THE INFANT of Mr. and Mrs. BRADLEY. 

Scarcely my life it has began, 
Until I will live out my span; 

I scarcely see the light of day, 

When angels whisper, "come away." 

No, not strength enough for a groan; 

Scarcely strength enough for a moan; 
Just as the leaves begin to fall, 

I hasten to the angels' call. 

Moaning and feebly crying, 

Though living, still a dying; 
Weeping from the hour of birth, 

Scarcely behold the light of earth. 

My stay on earth will not be long, 

Why should I weep.? I know no wrong; 

But a poor, weak infant am I, 

Born only to pain, weep and die. 

My heart throbs with a feeble throe. 
With aches and pain and infant woe; 

My eyes scarcely behold the light. 

Till I'll be wrapped in robes of white. 



BATTLE OF PEACH TREE CREEK. II5 

I scarce hear the birds chirp their lay 

Then I am called to come away. 
Tender as the flowers that bloom, 

I will be carried to the tomb. 

My little spirit hovers o'er, 

Ere takes its flight to yon bright shore, 
Soon plumes its wings and soars away, 

With angel, to a brighter day. 



THE BATTLE OF PEACH TREE CREEK. 

On the nineteenth of July, 1864, Newton's division of 
Thomas' corps, crossed the Peach Tree Creek, a narrow, 
but deep stream, and encamped for the night on a rise of 
ground and waited for the right wing to cross. (Hooker's 
corps.) The next morning was dry and warm. (20th) At 
about nine o'clock, as we lay in camp, the rebs. began to 
fire into our lines from some rifle pits they had dug through 
the night before, and we could not dislodge them with our 
rifles, so Newton brought up some cannon and threw some 
well directed shells, that sent them flying to the rear. By 
this time. Hooker had crossed the stream and was form- 
ing his line. Newton was now ordered to advance, throw- 
ing out a heavy line of skirmishers, to feel the way and to 
draw the rebels' fire, so as to find where they lay. We had 
not gone eighty rods before the firing began, but we press- 



Il6 BATTLE OF PEACH TREE CREEK. 

ed on a half mile or more, when the enemy fell back, and 
firing entirely ceased, when we halted and made our cof- 
fee. The 73d Illinois was sent on in advance, to watch 
the movement of the enemy. I had gone a few rods to 
the left, where two pieces of cannon (brass) were stationed, 
I think they were Michigan guns, and stood in the old 
Peach Tree road. While I was talking to the boys of the 
battery, General Wagner, I think it was, rode up and 
gave some hurried orders to the officers of the guns, and 
telling us all to get to our companies. We seemed in no 
hurry, when the General said sharply, "Boys, get to your 
companies, the rebels are coming, four lines deep." We 
then all ran to our companies and strapped on our equip- 
ments, and stood ready for battle. Newton's division lay 
across the old Peach Tree road, its right facing south, but 
the left of the division was doubled back so it nearly faced 
the east. There was a gap of some three miles between 
the left wing and Hooker. The line had been broken up 
by the crossing of the Peach Tree. Newton held that gap 
of three miles on the advance. The division being rather 
small, left quite a gap on his left, also a half mile or more 
on his right, for Hooker had not yet advanced his corps so 
to join Newton. The officials at Richmond had now be- 
come dissatisfied with Johnston and his retreating policy, 
removed him and gave the command to Hood, a noted 
fighter and firy leader. As soon as Hood got command, he 
began to prepare to give battle. "He would show the 



BATTLE OF PEACH TREE CREEK. II7 

great Yankee chieftain that he was his match and that this 
flanking had played out." Hood saw our broken lines and 
laid his plans for battle; and he laid them well. He saw 
that if he could keep Newton engaged with a heavy force, 
then crowd a heavy column into the gap on Newton's left, 
he could roll it up and send it back, routed, across the 
Chatahoochie river. About two o'clock, while we were 
hastily throwing some rails together for temporary breast- 
works, the 73d, that had been sent in advance, came in 
on the quick step and filed to the right in line. The Colo- 
nel said to us boys, "Hot times soon, for they are coming 
for us four lines deep." Soon their advance came out of 
the woods in front, followed by their main line in force. 
Newton's left now began firing, and the two brass pieces 
that stood in the Peach Tree road, began to shell the 
woods in front. By this time, Newton's whole division be- 
came engaged. While making this heavy demonstration 
on Newton, Hood carried out his plan, and sent a strong 
force to crowd through the gap on Newton's left. But old 
Pap Thomas was prepared for such an emergency, and had 
gathered a lot of cannon and some stragglers, and placed 
them in line along this gap, and opened up on the confid- 
ent, advancing columns, and took them by surprise, but 
they pressed on, determined to burst through, but Thomas 
made the old valley smoke, and blaze and thunder, until 
the old hills trembled. Tears coursed down the old hero's 
war-worn cheeks when he saw Newton wrapped in smoke. 



Il8 BATTLE OF PEACH TREE CREEK. 

contending against such odds. An officer now came gal- 
loping along, telling us to hold the line at all hazards, as 
reinforcements were coming. 

Thomas well knew that if Newton broke, all was lost. 
Hood hurled his heavy force on Newton's line. On they 
came, when it seemed we could not stand the pressure. 
Hood, foiled in the attempt to turn Newton's left, sent a 
heavy force to turn his right, for Hooker had not yet join- 
ed on Newton, but was hurrying up with all speed. About 
midwa)^ between Hooker's and Hood's approaching lines, 
there was a ridge in an open field, and each line was mov- 
ing forward to gain this ridge. A soldier just at my right 
saw Hood's moving columns, and became so excited at the 
impending conflict, he jumped to his feet and exclaimed 
"Look out Hood, Old Joe's over there." The rebels rush- 
ed down as if to crush Hooker at one fell swoop. Sure, 
"Old Joe was over there," for he made the old field crack- 
le and flame and smoke like a thousand furnaces in full 
blast. 

As they bore down on Hooker, they passed Newton's 
right. Col. Barrett saw the advantage, called to the 73d 
111. to follow him, and placing them along the gap that yet 
intervened between Hooker and Newton, and poured into 
their flank a most destructive fire. Hooker being back and 
to the right of us, some of his men fired rather wildly and 
as the balls passed over our heads, some of the boys be- 
came excited for fear that the enemy had crowded through 



BATTLE OF PEACH TREE CREEK. IIQ 

on the left and got to our rear, but we thought if uncle 
Billy had got us in he would get us out. 

While Hooker was pushing them back with the bayo- 
net, slowly contending for every inch of ground, all along 
Newton's line it was one contiuous roar, but the confeder- 
ates came on slowJy, determined to crush Newton's divis- 
ion. Now each line stood face to face, pouring into each 
other's breasts the deadly missiles. My gun, by this time, 
became so hot that I dare not charge it, so my captain 
handed me one of a fallen comrade. Right in front, I saw 
a little rebel Captain, with his cap on the point of his 
sword and swinging it over his head, cheering on his com- 
pany to capture the two brass pieces in the road. But the 
battery boys saw the impending doom and double charged 
one piece, then put in between fifty and sixty short-range 
grape, then rammed down an old wool hat filled with min- 
nie balls, and trained it on the little captain and his devot- 
ed company, who so bravely were marching on to certain 
doom. The little captain and the most of his company 
were swept away, but on came their heavy lines, undis- 
mayed, slowly and steadily. By this time they were only 
a few paces in front of us and seemed determined to burst 
through, when all along the line you could hear the omin- 
ous click of the bayonet, saying "thus far and no farther." 
On they came, with the battle cry of "Bull's run. Bull's 
run." It was echoed back, "Fort Pillow, Fort Pillow." 



I20 BATTLE OF PEACH TREE CKEEK. 

Just at this critical moment, two pieces of a Michig-an bat- 
tery came up at full speed, wheeled into line and joined in 
a welcome with those two in the road, and sent shot and 
shell tearing through their ranks, mowing great gaps, fir- 
ing at will, men yelling, officers riding here and there. 
Riffes cracked, cannon roared and flashed and flamed, un- 
til they fairly leaped in the excitement; trees came crash- 
ing down, slivered by the huge iron balls; leaves and twigs 
filled the air; the cry of the wounded, the last request of 
the dying as he gave it to some comrade near; shells went 
screaming through the air, bursting, sending their ragged 
edge through the ranks; the dull thud of the relentless 
minnie as it struck the breast of some comrade near, draw- 
ing the life blood, as he sank with a half stifled groan. 

Heavy clouds of sulphurous smoke hung low over the 
two contending lines, the sun almost hidden. Not a foot 
of ground had Newton given, though contending against 
great odds. Rifles glimmered and gleamed, cracked and 
smoked. It seemed hell and earth had met. I turned and 
looked down the line and when I saw such wretched work, 
the smoke, the roar, the demoniac yells, I thought "Oh! 
is this earth and man?" 

Hooker had driven the enemy back, foot by foot, by 
the bayonet, and now lapped on Newton. The confeder- 
ates contested every inch, and crowded us hard, but the 
Union lines stood, though powder-burnt, smoke-begrim- 
med and trembling. 



BATTLE OF PEACH TREE CREEK. 121 

It seemed our nerves could not stand the strain much 
longer, when an officer came running along the line telling 
us to "Hold the line, hold the line boys, reinforcements 
are coming." We greeted the news with a cheer and re- 
newed our efforts. Soon, strangers began to crowd into 
our lines, and welcome guests, to be sure. Then, nerv- 
ing ourselves for the final struggle, we poured into their 
ranks such a storm of lead that they broke and ran. 

Colonel Barrett and Captain Bliss, just at my right, 
were jumping up and down and throwing their caps in the 
air, and shouting themselves hoarse, and cutting as many 
antics as a lot of rustic school boys just let loose, over the 
victory. They soon formed and came on again, but a few 
well directed volleys sent them back. They formed again 
and agam, but every attack grew weaker and weaker, and 
at dark they withdrew and left us masters of the field. 



THE END. 



INDEX. 12 



INDEX. 



Boyhood Days §7 

Boadicea, 103 

Battle of Peach Tree Creek, .... 115 

Eureka, 84 

Ellennor, 8g 

Forest Home, The 73 

Hope, 93 

Kinderhook, 14 

Little gleaner, 72 

Lines to my sister Alvira, 69 

Lines to Rizpah, 75 

Lines to Miss N. A 96 

Lines to Infant of Mr. and Mrs. Bradley, 114 

Last Station, The 106 

Mother, Home and Heaven, .... 67 

Muse, 68 

Maid of the Plains, 82 

Old Well, The 11 

Orison, An 74 

Old Home, The 98 

Preface, 3 

Parody on The Last Glass, 102 

Rogers and Jones, iio 



124 INDEX. 



Sunset on Lake Lavin:\, 12 

Siege of Atlanta, 42 

Seven Oaks, The i)' 

Two Little Maids, ... 76 

Trial of Galileo, .... 100 

Vision, A . . '12 

Women and Wine, .... 65 

We are all Jumping, .... 70 

Waiting, . . • 7^ 

Why it was so, 1°^ 

Zagonyi's Charge, t)' 






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